


all the separate pieces of us

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Series: Tumbling Hudders [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Army Doctor John, Blood, Blow Jobs, Clubbing, Comfort, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Dry Humping, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Established Relationship, Evil Mary, Face-Fucking, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hickeys, Home, It's For a Case, Jealous John, John's limp, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Meet the Family, Minor Injuries, Missing Scene, Moving, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Parentlock, Past Abuse, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Public Display of Affection, Running, Scars, Sequel, Sex Games, Sexual Fantasy, Sleeping Together, Smile, Smut, Stroppy Sherlock, Sweat, Teasing, The Tarmac Scene, Waltzing, Weddings, sherlock made dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 22,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets from tumblr, where I asked my followers to send me a body part and a character to write about. The ficlets cover the range from angst to fluff to smut. Most are Johnlock (some pre-slash, some post) but not all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's hair

**Author's Note:**

> This comes from my expanding collection of tumblr ficlets. It has therefore not been beta'ed or Britpicked.
> 
> Each chapter is a separate ficlet. I put some notes on each chapter so that you have an idea of what it contains. Feel free to skip any that don't appeal to you; I won't be offended. :)
> 
>    
>  _Update 14 Feb 2016: I've marked this fic as complete, as it's been nearly four months since I added any ficlets to it. There are still a few body part asks buried somewhere in my inbox, so it's possible I may add another chapter or two somewhere down the road, but in reality, this is probably it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, Sherlock's return

Sherlock had been surprised by a lot of things when he came home. He was surprised to find that Mrs. Hudson’s scones tasted even better than he remembered. He was surprised that Anderson of all people had started a Sherlock Holmes fan club. He was surprised that he still knew London as well as before, that the city’s pulse still matched his own. But mostly he was surprised by John.

There were unhappy surprises. John had moved out of Baker Street. He had grown a ridiculous mustache. Greeted Sherlock’s return with anger and anguish. Gotten himself engaged.

But there were happy surprises, too. John had shaved off the ridiculous mustache. He had joined Sherlock for a case again far sooner than Sherlock could have expected. He had ultimately forgiven Sherlock and slipped back into a comfortable, if slightly more distant, friendship.

The best surprise though had been John’s hair. Before Sherlock left, John’s hair had been a sandy blonde with a few grey strands here and there, a perfectly normal ratio of grey-to-blonde for a man of his age. But now Sherlock could read the toll of his time away in the current color of John’s hair. Every strand had taken a turn toward silver. More individual hairs were grey, but even those that remained blonde were lighter, as if Sherlock’s absence had begun to leech the color from John’s life. Maybe it had. The result was that both blonde and grey gleamed brightly, catching the light and reflecting it back into the world as something even more dazzling.

Sherlock knew he should feel badly that his fall had stressed John so badly, but he was too fascinated by the change to be ashamed. Sherlock had always thought John attractive, but now he was radiant. His hair was a perfect mix of silver and gold. Sherlock stayed awake at night wondering if he touched it whether it would feel like sunshine or frost. John’s hair had become a beautiful contradiction, a perfect metaphor for the man himself. He had always been cuddly jumpers and hidden danger, healing hands and steady aim, perfectly ordinary and absolutely extraordinary, and now his hair had grown to match, a gorgeous conundrum Sherlock couldn’t wait to unravel.


	2. Sherlock's inner thigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, smut

John’s favorite place on Sherlock’s body is the inside of his thigh, right near the top. He loves how Sherlock carries the smallest bit of fat there–most of his body is lean and firm, but here is just the tiniest hint of padding, softer than the sharp angles and strong lines that make up the rest of his frame. John loves how sensitive Sherlock is there, how when he breathes over the fine hairs Sherlock will shiver and groan. He loves how when they’re sitting next to each other at a restaurant, he can slip his hand under the table and across Sherlock’s leg until his fingers just barely brush across this glorious patch of skin, fingertips swiping ever-so-slightly back and forth, back and forth, until Sherlock is panting and hard and begging the waiter for the check. But most of all, John loves the way he can drive Sherlock mad there; he can take his time kissing and biting and sucking up and down Sherlock’s thighs, pausing when he gets to this spot SO close to where Sherlock wants to be touched but not quite there, making him crazy with desire, teasing him relentlessly until he’s whining and moaning, his cock leaking pre-come all over his pale belly as he writhes and begs John  _please, please touch me, please John, I need to come, oh god John, please, please make me come._


	3. John's toes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jolto, army!john, bad day, massage

John had never liked for anyone to touch his feet. Even though as a doctor he knew there wasn’t anything inherently gross about feet, he didn’t really enjoy anyone touching his. He didn’t mind touching other people’s feet either, but something about other people touching his made his stomach flip. (Once a girlfriend had thought it would be sexy to suck on his big toe, and he had nearly broken her nose when he tried to violently wriggle away.)

 

It had been a long day, the kind John always prayed he would be able to forget. An early patrol had been caught in a firefight, and John had been awoken at what felt like the crack of dawn to help with the wounded. He had worked ceaselessly all day, saving a few lives but losing a few more, until he was bone-tired and everything he could do had been done. He managed to stumble his way back to his bed, swaying where he stood as he tried to at least toe off his shoes before collapsing. A sturdy, familiar hand grabbed his shoulder to steady him and then guided him gently onto the bed. The mattress dipped next to him when James took a seat, reaching out a hand to rub light, soothing circles on John’s back. 

They didn’t need to talk about it. James knew–knew what had happened that morning, knew the hell John’s day had been, knew that John had lost more men than he’d managed to save, knew that what John needed now was silent comfort, not conversation or coddling. James stayed by his side, gently rubbing the muscles in his tense neck and aching shoulders. Up and down both sides of his spine. Down down down his weary thighs and calves. By the time James reached his feet, John was too exhausted to tell him to stop. As James rubbed his thumbs in tiny, firm circles against John’s heels, his arches, the balls of his feet, and each and every toe, John thought  _maybe this foot thing isn’t so bad after all_  and finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep


	4. Sherlock's hipbones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, masturbation

Sherlock has no qualms about walking around the flat in various states of dress and undress. John has seen him in a suit (never a tie), a dressing gown, trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt, a sheet, jeans and a too tight v-neck, and even once, memorably, a dress shirt and his pants, after he had accidentally spilled a weak acid down one leg of his trousers and ripped them off in the middle of the kitchen. At this point, John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock just walked around the flat nude one day–John has learned to always expect the unexpected in 221B.

Today however, Sherlock is milling about in his pajamas. John suspects the ratty shirt may be left over from when Sherlock was a teenager, judging by how stretched and threadbare the fabric is and the fact that it’s clearly a couple inches too short, as if he had first worn it when he himself had been a fair bit shorter. The bottoms are just as thin, the elastic worn out, so that the waistband hangs far lower than it should. Between the too-short top and the too-low bottoms, a wide strip of pale skin peeks out, revealing two sharp hipbones and the barest hint of the hair that must trail thick and soft down between Sherlock’s legs. John finds himself staring at this expanse of skin, trying to memorize the way it looks, and wishes not for the first time that he had a mind palace of his own so that he could always remember this little hint of skin in perfect detail.

 

That night in bed, John lets his thoughts drift back to those few inches between Sherlock’s pajamas. He imagines what it would be like to kiss a path from one hipbone to the other, to suck a deep purple mark into that creamy skin, to push the thin fabric down until Sherlock’s growing erection springs free and John can take him in hand and stroke him torturously slowly.

He thinks of what it would be like to lay an arm across those hips, the two sharp points at either side pressing up into his arm, as Sherlock writhes and cants with his cock in John’s mouth, John pinning him in place and controlling exactly how much of Sherlock’s erection he takes down on each bob of his head, building the pleasure and then backing off again and again.

He wonders what it would be like to dig his fingers into those hipbones as Sherlock sits astride him and rides John’s cock as he strokes his own, his hips undulating harder and faster under John’s hands until Sherlock comes, shooting thick, white ropes across John’s chest and belly, his arse clenching rhythmically around John as Sherlock rides out his orgasm.

He fantasizes about what it would be like to desperately grip those sharp hipbones, leaving fingertip bruises from the pressure, as John buries himself in Sherlock’s sated body over and over, just on the knife edge of orgasm until Sherlock swipes one finger through his own come on John’s chest and presses it into John’s mouth, the sheer filthy delight of it pushing John past the breaking point, his own hips stuttering in their pounding rhythm as the waves of pleasure crash over him.

Finally, he falls asleep picturing what it would be like to snuggle up behind Sherlock, soft and sleepy and satisfied, draping one arm possessively across his waist, his fingers dragging down to caress one of those beautiful hipbones as he and Sherlock drift off together.


	5. John's leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, post-Reichenbach, psychosomatic limp

Everyone thought that John had moved out of 221B because he couldn’t stand to be there without Sherlock anymore, but the truth was that he would have stayed forever if he could have. Their flat had been a sacred space, a warm, messy cocoon where he could still feel Sherlock’s presence all around, feel Sherlock’s heart beating in the slide still under the microscope’s lens and the leftover casefiles still scattered across the desk in the sitting room and the half-finished composition still on the stand by the window, waiting for notes that would never be written. Sometimes the pain of his loss overwhelmed him, but John never thought of leaving because the flat was where Sherlock was, the one tangible piece of him John could still hold on to. Living in 221B was like living with a ghost, but John would have rathered live there with Sherlock’s ghost than somewhere else without him at all.

 

Two nights after Sherlock’s fall, John lost himself in a few too many memories and far too many drinks, and he curled into Sherlock’s bed for the very first time, a place he had always hoped to  someday find himself, though never like this. He burrowed down into pillows and sheets that smelled so strongly of Sherlock that his eyes stung with every glorious breath he drew in, and he fell asleep easily, thinking of wild, mahogany curls and keen, verdigris eyes rather than wet, red streaks on too pale skin and the man he loves falling, falling, falling…

In the morning when he awoke and crawled out of Sherlock’s bed, his leg twinged with pain for the first time in a year and a half. It was a dull ache, but having gone so long without the pain, he had forgotten just how much he hated it. He soldiered on through the day, puttering around the flat and nursing his mild hangover, and by the time evening rolled around, the pain had subsided some and a bit of his agitation had gone along with it. John woke the next morning to find his leg aching again, the pain slightly sharper than the day before, hateful but manageable. His only choice was to distract himself as best he could and try to get on with the humdrum routine of everyday life.

After a week, John found himself limping slightly as he walked into the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Four days beyond that, the pain and the limp were both bad enough that John decided to start sleeping on the sofa or in Sherlock’s bed rather than make the torturous climb to his own bedroom. When he had to dig out his old cane, he knew it was finally time to do something and limped his way down the stairs and out the door into the perpetual grey drizzle that seemed to permeate his very thoughts these days. He climbed into a taxi and gave the driver the address of his therapist’s office. As they passed block after block, putting more and more distance between them and Baker Street, John could feel the tension in his leg easing just a bit, and as much as he hated the pain, his first thought was still,  _no, please, don’t let this be true_.

But it was.

The therapy itself didn’t help much, but John came to find that the more he got out of the flat, the less he limped, while the more he stayed home, the greater the pain became. After a particularly miserable few days where he hadn’t left the flat at all, spending his time wallowing in self-pity and should-haves, he struggled to even make it from his chair to the kitchen table and knew that he couldn’t stay at Baker Street any longer. As much as he wanted to remain in the one place where Sherlock still lived on, he knew he had to leave it behind before he gave in to his misery and acted on one of the drastic things that crossed his mind in his darker moments.

Eventually he settled into his new flat, a clean, crisp space free of all the chaos he and Sherlock had both loved. It felt like a hollow shell, much as John himself felt now that he had truly left his life with Sherlock behind. But there in his new flat and his new life, the pain in his leg subsided. He stopped using the cane. He stopped grinding his teeth against the constant ache. And when John finally woke one morning to find that his leg didn’t hurt at all, he buried himself under his duvet and wept, feeling for the first time completely lost and empty and utterly alone.


	6. Sherlock's neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, minor injury/blood

John rushes around the corner to find Sherlock straddling the murderer’s back, pinning him in place until Lestrade and his team can catch up. They grin at each other stupidly, delirious from the chase, from putting a dangerous criminal out of commission, from the satisfaction of another case well-solved. But John’s smile falters as Sherlock shifts, his coat collar moving to expose his alabaster neck, red and wet and glistening. 

“Sherlock. Christ, are you okay?” John asks, panic setting in as it always does at the sight of Sherlock bleeding. He crosses the remaining space between them and steps in front of Sherlock, peeling the Belstaff down to reveal even more blood soaking into his pristine shirt and smearing along his shoulder and collarbone.

“I’m fine. He just nicked me a bit with his knife,” Sherlock replies, tossing his head back to indicate where the suspect had dropped his weapon.

“Come here. Let me see it,” John says, as he reaches for Sherlock’s neck. He needs to know for himself that Sherlock is okay, never trusting that his and Sherlock’s definition of “fine” are quite the same. He uses the sleeve of his coat to wipe away some of the blood so that he can better see the wound. John places a thumb on either side of the cut, bending down to get a closer look. It’s more than a nick but thankfully not quite enough to require stitches.

“You’re right. It’s not too bad. The bleeding should stop on its own,” he reassures Sherlock, who shivers as John’s breath ghosts across his skin, and John licks his lips in involuntary response. He doesn’t remember giving his hands permission to move, but he finds his right thumb stroking softly up and down the smooth, unblemished skin near the cut as his left hand slides across Sherlock’s throat and up to his jaw, gently guiding Sherlock’s face toward him. He looks as if he’s discovered himself in this situation quite as unexpectedly as John has. 

“John?” he whispers.

John gazes into pale eyes that are questioning but unafraid. That tiny bit of reassurance gives John the courage he needs to close the distance and press his lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss is soft and sweet and completely chaste, but it leaves John feeling as if he can breathe properly for the first time in his life. And when Sherlock breathes out a tiny  _oh,_  John chuckles and kisses him again.


	7. Sherlock's knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, fluff

The first time John sleeps in Sherlock’s bed, he wakes up in the morning with a knobbly knee jammed into the side of his thigh, the faintest hint of a bruise appearing throughout the day. The next morning, he wakes desperately needing to piss, Sherlock’s bent leg thrown across him haphazardly, his bony knee weighing on John’s bladder. The morning after it’s an elbow against his cheekbone, the next a fist wedged under his back. It’s clear that Sherlock isn’t used to sleeping in bed with another person, sprawling his long limbs out to take up all the space he’s accustomed to having for himself. It’s as if the bed is a battlezone and Sherlock’s arms and legs are making a nightly claim on their territory, warring with anyone who dares to come within reach.

But slowly, night by night, John begins to wrangle his lanky body into a more confined space. He presses his front to Sherlock’s back, wrapping an arm tightly around Sherlock’s smooth chest, pinning him in place. When they first begin to fall asleep spooning like this, John still wakes in the morning with arms draped suffocatingly across his neck or cold toes digging into his calves, but over time, Sherlock’s limbs begin to wander less and less in the night as he settles into the comfort of the shared space. Then one golden morning John wakes with his knees still tucked behind Sherlock’s, their sleepy forms still molded together. He presses a smiling kiss against the back of Sherlock’s neck and snuggles back down into the warm sheets, happy to have the sleeping detective in his arms, exactly where he’s meant to be.


	8. John's butt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, very mildly nsfw

When they had first become a couple, Sherlock had been nervous about being affectionate with John outside their flat. He’d hesitated to even hold John’s hand, afraid that John wouldn’t welcome his touch or the inevitable stares that it would bring from others. He had thus been pleasantly surprised when after a particularly brilliant deduction on their next case, John had kissed him soundly in front of Lestrade’s entire team, not caring at all who saw or what they might have to say about it. From that moment on, they had both been more than comfortable with public displays of affection, unafraid to reach for a hand or steal a kiss (and occasionally more) when they wanted to. 

Which is how Sherlock found himself with a lap-full of army doctor in the middle of Sally Donovan’s sitting room.

Sally had put together an engagement party for Molly and Lestrade, and John–along with half the Met–had taken the party aspect a bit too seriously and gotten quite spectacularly drunk. Sherlock had been content to sit and watch, nurse a beer or two, as John laughed and talked and even danced a bit, wiggling his beautiful bum in Sherlock’s direction from time to time. When everyone decided to head outside for a bit of fresh air, John sought out Sherlock instead, depositing himself in Sherlock’s lap, his arse wedged between Sherlock’s thigh and the arm of the chair, his legs draped carelessly off the other arm. He leaned to the side until he could wedge himself under Sherlock’s armpit and Sherlock brought his arm up to drape around John, pulling him closer so that John could rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

They enjoyed their comfortable bubble of silence, a little oasis away from the chaos of the rest of the party, John pressing the occasional soft kiss to Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock stroked his hand gently up and down John’s arm. Before long though, John’s breaths on Sherlock’s neck were coming faster, and less seconds passed between kisses that grew wetter and harder with each crush of John’s lips to his neck. When Sherlock finally turned his head and captured John’s mouth with his own, John took it as a sign of encouragement and rearranged his limbs, with all the finesse of the blissfully drunk, so that he was straddling Sherlock’s lap, giving him a better angle to snog Sherlock soundly.

Kisses soon gave way to breathy moans and wandering hands, wriggling hips and brushing contact between their growing erections. Sherlock captured John’s hands and laced their fingers together as John began to grind down against him in earnest, panting and groaning as he nibbled at Sherlock’s ear and along his jaw. When John pulled Sherlock’s hands around behind him and placed them on his perfect arse, encouraging Sherlock to squeeze, to grab on as John writhed against him, Sherlock decided it was time to take this further, which meant it was time to leave. He was buzzed enough to have enjoyed himself but not drunk enough to allow his boyfriend to frot against him until they both came in their pants in someone else’s sitting room. (They had a sitting room of their own they could do that in, after all.) He pushed John gently back until he took the hint and climbed out of Sherlock’s lap, chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen and red, looking vaguely bereft now that he didn’t have Sherlock underneath him anymore. Sherlock stood and kissed him breathless, reaching down to give his bum one more quick squeeze, before taking John’s hand and dragging him out the front door. “Let’s take this party home.”


	9. Sherlock's wrists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, absolutely nsfw, smut all the way through

John and Sherlock quickly discovered that Sherlock loves having his wrists bound during sex. He loves having one secured to each post of John’s old bed as John teases and strokes and sucks and fingers him until he comes violently, shaking and moaning and gasping for air. He loves having them tied together behind his back, his face pressed down into the mattress as John licks his arse, his tongue working in and out of the tight ring of muscle until Sherlock is nearly sobbing with the need to come. He loves having one wrist pinned under each of John’s sturdy hands as John fucks him slowly, his cock brushing against Sherlock’s prostate with each deliberate stroke, sending sparks up Sherlock’s spine, the rhythm building along with his pleasure until he comes entirely untouched.

Therefore, it isn’t entirely unsurprising when Sherlock asks John to hold him down this time, even though they haven’t tried this particular activity before. John kneels astride Sherlock’s chest and asks, “Are you sure?” and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him in response, as if to say  _am I ever NOT sure?_  “Don’t look at me like that. We haven’t done this before, and if you decide you want to stop, you won’t be able to talk or use your hands.”

“I’ll be fine, John. Just do it,” Sherlock tells him impatiently, grabbing John’s arse to pull him closer.

“Bossy,” John chuckles.

As Sherlock stretches his arms above his head, John gives himself a few firm strokes, twisting his wrist at the end the way he likes. He inches his way further up Sherlock’s chest until he’s close enough to press the head of his cock against those beautiful, full lips. Sherlock’s tongue darts out to lap the bead of pre-come from his slit, and John takes advantage of the opportunity to lean forward, one hand coming up to pin Sherlock’s right wrist in place, the other holding his erection steady so that he can slide just the tip into Sherlock’s mouth and back out again. He pushes gently in and out, in and out, no more than an inch or so, revelling in the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue swirling around the head.

John takes his time, afraid to go too far too fast, but Sherlock has no such concerns. With the hand that’s still free, he pulls John’s left hand up above his head, encouraging John to pin his second wrist against the mattress. The movement has the added bonus of making John lean farther forward, more of his cock sliding into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock hums around him in approval. He hollows his cheeks as John rocks back and forward again, the motion still slight and hesitant at first, but Sherlock continues humming and moaning his encouragement and soon John is fucking his mouth in earnest, his hips undulating in smooth, steady strokes that bring him almost but not quite to Sherlock’s throat, stopping just short of choking him each time before pulling nearly all the way out again.

Sherlock loves it all. He always loves having John’s cock in his mouth, the feeling of that hard flesh gliding over his tongue. He loves the pressure of John’s hands on his wrists, the inability to touch driving him wild with want. He loves the knowledge that he’s giving John the ultimate pleasure by allowing him to take exactly what he wants, to control how fast and how hard his climax builds, to do whatever feels best at any given moment.

For all his initial hesitation, John loves it, too. He always loves the feeling of Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth stretched around him, warm and wet and welcoming. He loves the way the tendons in Sherlock’s wrists stretch and strain as he pushes against John with the urge to touch, to run his hands along every inch of John’s skin, to take himself in hand and find his own pleasure as John takes his. He loves the inherent trust Sherlock has in him, allowing John to hold him down and use him as he wants knowing John would never abuse that power.

John can feel the tension building in his spine, hot and tight, as he rolls his hips again and again. He watches his cock disappear between those perfect, pink lips, thinking _christ, that mouth was made for this_ , and when Sherlock groans around him once more, it pushes him right to the verge. “Oh, god, Sherlo…” He sits back and strokes once, twice, and then he’s careening over the edge, struggling to keep his eyes open to watch as come spurts thick and white across those swollen lips and one sharp cheekbone, Sherlock surging forward to suck him back down and wring every last drop from his sated body.

 

Later, when John has taken care of Sherlock, too, they snuggle together in the middle of their bed, spent and sleepy and deliriously happy. Sherlock runs his fingers absently across John’s chest, while John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “John?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Yes, love?”

“Can we do that again tomorrow?”

John laughs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Whatever you want.”


	10. John's nape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, pre-slash

John Watson isn’t the kind of man who wears his heart on his sleeve for all to see. His tears don’t flow freely. His smiles don’t come easily (though they come a bit easier with Sherlock, ever the exception to any rule). The only emotion he lets escape with any regularity is anger, and even then, it’s often just a mere shadow of the real thing, bits of steam bursting through the cracks while the real rage boils below the surface.

Sherlock Holmes has spent years learning to read John, to see the emotions he buries under wooly jumpers and a mask of propriety. Sherlock sees disappointment in the slope of John’s shoulders, excitement in the light in his eyes, anxiety in the twitch of his hand, violent fury in the set of his jaw and the tightness of his lips. And Sherlock knows that when John is truly in pain, when he’s on the verge of cracking or collapsing or completely shutting down–Sherlock isn’t sure which–when John is close to letting all his hidden emotions overwhelm him, he rubs hard at the nape of his neck, fingers scraping through his short, sandy hair, squeezing as if keeping a grip on his own skin will help him keep a grip on his feelings as well. And maybe it does because Sherlock has never actually seen John let it all go. So close but never quite there. Often Sherlock pushes and prods at all John’s tender spots just to see if he can make him explode. Because even though he knows it’s a bit not good, Sherlock longs to see it, to discover whether it would be beautiful or terrifying or a devastating mix of both. To see the real John hidden beneath layers and layers of caution and repression and civility. To be the only one to know,  _really know_  John Watson.

 

Sherlock strides resolutely away, knowing that if he even slows down he won’t be able to keep his feet from turning around and carrying him back toward John. He climbs the steps without looking back and throws himself into a seat, trying to at least hold himself together until they get in the air and there’s no longer a chance to say  _damn it all to hell_  and run back to John like some kind of cliched romantic movie heroine. When the plane begins to taxi away, he risks one last glance at John out the opposite window, watches him watching the plane, his face set in a hard mask that betrays little. Just before he disappears from Sherlock’s view, one hand comes up to grip his neck, rubbing and squeezing hard as he drops his gaze to the ground. 

For all that he’s tried to provoke John into letting go, this time, for the first time ever, Sherlock thinks,  _please don’t let him crumble._


	11. Sherlock's butt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, jealous!john, club!sherlock

The bartender sets two glasses on the bar, a beer for John and something fruity for Sherlock (though John can’t remember him ever drinking anything of the sort before). He pays for the drinks and turns to hand Sherlock his, but of course the git is nowhere to be found. He sets the dreadful, pink concoction back on the counter and takes a long pull from his pint, resigned to yet another evening of standing by while Sherlock runs off to investigate without him, only coming back when he’s discovered everything he needs to know and wants John to now cover his arse while he does something reckless. Not that John minds watching Sherlock’s back–he practically lives on feet-pounding, blood-pumping, heart-stopping chases through the back alleys of London, running into unknown danger with Sherlock at his side–he’d just like to also be let in on the rest of the fun from time to time.

A quick glance around the club reveals that Sherlock has made his way onto the dance floor where he has, of course, already found a partner to dance with him, their hips and shoulders and feet and arms all moving in time to the heavy, relentless beat. Sherlock looks devastatingly gorgeous, all wild-haired and bright-eyed. His tight t-shirt clings to the firm muscles of his chest and abs and biceps, and his jeans look as if they’ve been painted on, hugging the delectable curves of his rather ample arse. John stares for several long moments before he realizes he’s stopped breathing and sucks down a shaking lungful of air. He tries to look away, but his eyes are drawn back again and again to his flatmate. He is utterly captivated by the way Sherlock’s whole body rolls and shakes and sways to the music, totally unrestrained, a far stretch from the cold, stiff demeanor he often presents to the world. The flashing lights of the club cast his face in infinite combinations of highlights and shadows, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief and emphasizing the otherworldly beauty of his sharp face, and then washing the whole of him in dim, warm light that makes him glow with youth and joy and life.

Watching Sherlock like this amplifies the ever-present ache in John’s chest. He wants. He wants, but he can’t have. And even though he has resolved not to act on it, to content himself with being no more than friends with the most brilliant, beautiful, mesmerizing man he has ever or will ever meet, sometimes the longing still wells up inside him, unbidden and intense, the desire not only to touch and taste and take but also to praise and please and protect. Sometimes it even seems like maybe there’s the tiniest hint of a possibility that Sherlock might feel the same, but it’s always gone before John can look at it too closely. He watches Sherlock dance and thinks for the thousandth time,  _oh,_   _I wish, I wish…_

Along with the yearning comes the jealousy. John knows it’s ridiculous and childish and entirely unfounded, but sometimes when others so much as look at Sherlock a certain way, the jealousy courses white and hot through John’s body, scorching through him like lightning. He knows rationally that Sherlock isn’t his, that he can do whatever he pleases with whomever he pleases, but that doesn’t mean John wants to stand by and watch as it happens. Even now, just knowing that Sherlock is out there on the dance floor with someone else–even though he knows it’s only for a case–it makes John tense and unhappy, especially so now that the man has squeezed in closer to Sherlock, their chests and hips all but touching as they move. John swallows hard and purses his lips, trying to keep the envy at bay, to push it back down into the darker parts of his heart where it belongs. 

The man reaches out to grasp Sherlock’s hips, and it takes every ounce of John’s willpower not to push his way out onto the dance floor and bodily remove him from Sherlock’s personal space. Instead he finishes the last of his beer, slamming the glass back on the counter far harder than necessary. The man doesn’t move away from Sherlock, but he also doesn’t get any closer–though there’s barely any space between them as it is. John is still more than a bit on edge about it, but he feels like he’s at least doing an okay job controlling himself. 

That is, until the man’s hands slide around to squeeze Sherlock’s arse, grabbing a generous handful of both cheeks and pulling him forward until their hips and groins are pressed together, and the simmering jealousy in John’s veins comes to a raging boil so fast that his vision temporarily blacks out. He throws himself from the bar, somehow cognizant enough to grab Sherlock’s drink before he goes, and shoves his way through the writhing crowd to the far side of the floor, insinuating himself into the pair’s little bubble of space and thrusting the glass at Sherlock with all the feigned calm he can muster. “I brought you your drink,” he says rigidly. The other man is caught off-guard by John’s presence and pulls his hands from Sherlock’s body guiltily, taking as big of a step back as the packed room will allow. John casts a tight, dangerous smile his direction, a look that has quelled far bigger men, and he takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

When John looks back at Sherlock, the bastard has the audacity to be annoyed. “Well,  _now_ I’m not going to get any information out of him.”

“Is that what you call this?” John asks. “Because it looked to me like you were just getting your kicks, letting some stranger run his…” He stops himself short and huffs out an irritated breath.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to get information out of people, sometimes you have to give them a bit of what they want. Do you think I  _want_  murder suspects putting their hands on me?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock! I don’t know  _what_  you want!” John all but yells. He clenches and unclenches his fists, his hands twitching to push Sherlock away, to shake him until he understands, to grab and pull and crush their mouths together until Sherlock can feel how badly John wants him, how much he loves him. 

John’s chest heaves as he fights for control. “I…” A frustrated growl tears from his throat. “I can’t do this. If you want to stay here, fine. I’ll be outside. Come find me when you’ve got what you need, yeah?” Without waiting for a response, he turns and stalks away, never seeing the knowing grin that sneaks onto Sherlock’s face.


	12. Sherlock's smile lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, fluff

John knows every single one of Sherlock’s smiles. He may not have a mind palace, but he’s catalogued each kind and stored them all away in an overflowing room inside his heart.

There’s the oh-so-charming, white-teeth-and-sparkling-eyes smile he turns on for clients and criminals and unsuspecting strangers to ply them for information or favors.

There’s the tiny smile when a case first catches his attention, one corner of his lips tugging up, his excitement breaking through his calm veneer no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

There’s the  _fuck you_  smile for people he detests but has to put up with, small and tight and obviously false.

There’s the smile he reserves for people he likes–for Greg and for Molly and for Mrs. Hudson–close-lipped but wide and warm and welcoming.

 

Then there are the private smiles that only John ever really gets to see.

There’s the sleepy smile, his face soft and sweet as he gazes at John in the golden morning sunlight streaming through the bedroom window.

There’s the smile that means John’s done something clever, Sherlock’s face proud and beaming as if John were a minor miracle.

There’s the wondrous smile, lips crooked, nose crinkled, when Sherlock can’t quite figure out why John loves him so much, can’t believe that John is here and intends to stay.

There’s the smile when he laughs, broad and vibrant, deep chuckles rumbling up from his chest and out between his teeth.

There’s the mischievous smile that never fails to get John’s attention, full of desire and flirtation and dark promise.

There’s his very smallest smile, the one John has to read in his eyes rather than his lips, the one that alights his gorgeous face every time he says  _I love you_. 

 

There are at least a hundred more, minor variations in lips and teeth and cheeks and eyes, and John has mapped out every one. He’s seen and loves them all.

So he is completely shocked today when he discovers a new smile. He watches captivated as the most dazzling grin he’s ever seen breaks out across Sherlock’s face. His full lips pull tight, stretched as far as they can reach without splitting, lines of true joy etched deep into his cheeks, his eyes twinkling with life and light. It transforms his face into something beyond beauty, beyond radiance, beyond perfection, and John knows he’ll need to make a separate space in his heart for this grin, an entire room just for Sherlock’s smile when he says “I do.”


	13. John's arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, coming home

_Unseasonably warm_  they had said on the telly. What they meant was that it’s  _hot_. Disgustingly hot. So miserably hot and humid, that people keep themselves indoors just so no one will see how truly sweaty they are.

And of course it’s on this sweltering day that John finds himself carrying box after box up the stairs to 221B. When he had first moved into the flat, he’d brought up two small boxes containing all his possessions, the meager trappings of his post-military life. By the time he’d moved out, he had only managed to add one more box to that haul. Most of the things in the flat were Sherlock’s, and though the memories left along with John, the stuff did not.

Now that he’s moving in yet again, he finds that he’s got sixteen boxes of his belongings to lug up the stairs–apparently you acquire a lot of shit when you get married. Sixteen boxes to heave up the seventeen sodding steps into the sauna that 221B has become. John’s taken off just about as much clothing as he can manage–he’s not going to move back in wearing nothing more than his pants, no matter how much he’d like to rip off the shorts and vest he has on now. He’s sweating everywhere. He can feel it sliding down his back, drenching his collar, clinging to the fine hairs on his legs. It rolls down his biceps and into the inside of his elbows where it slowly soaks into the cardboard of each box.

Sixteen sweat-stained boxes later, and John is finally done. It would have gone faster if Sherlock would have helped, but of course the bastard had run off to shower mere seconds before John had first opened the door downstairs. (He’s fairly certain Sherlock had watched out the window so that he could time his departure to coincide with John’s arrival and get out of doing any work at all.) Just as well-timed, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom as John sets the last box on the floor. He looks up to find Sherlock shirtless and wearing his thinnest pair of pajama bottoms (of course the posh git doesn’t own any shorts), and John’s gaze rakes up that pale, smooth skin–completely involuntarily of course, not at all stopping to take in previously unseen freckles or blemishes–before it finds its way to Sherlock’s face. Their eyes search each other for a moment, re-familiarizing themselves now that John and Sherlock are both back here together, their faces breaking into simultaneous smiles as they realize that even though everything has changed, really nothing has. Nothing that really matters anyway. 

In a moment of stupid courage, John crosses the distance between them and throws his arms around Sherlock who grunts in surprise before tentatively wrapping his lanky arms around John’s back. John squeezes him tight, pressing himself against all that cool, creamy skin and inhaling the fresh, clean, Sherlocky scent of him, and then lets go before it can get too awkward. Sherlock flashes him a slightly dumbfounded smile before looking down at his chest to find his skin a bit more slick than he would like. “You got me all sweaty,” he complains. “I’m going to have to take another shower.” And with that he turns on his heel and heads back to the bathroom. 

John watches him go, laughing and shaking his head. Sherlock pauses with his hand on the doorknob and looks back at him. “John… I’m glad you’re home.” 

John beams back at him. “I’m glad to be home, Sherlock.”


	14. John's thighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, scars, brief mention of past abuse, villain!Mary

Sherlock isn’t a religious man–he believes in logic and reason and the truths he can discover with his own mind–but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worship. 

Presently he is busy worshipping John’s thighs. They’re finely muscled, slim but solid and strong, shaped by long treks through swirling desert sands and short chases through darkened city streets. As thighs go, John’s are incredibly sexy, but it isn’t their beauty that Sherlock worships. It’s their blemishes.

There’s a scar inside his right thigh, a jagged white line a few inches above his knee, so faded as to be only visible because no hair grows along it, where John had sliced his leg open on a rusty bit of metal as a child. There had been tears and stitches and worries of tetanus, but watching the curved needle slip in and out of his skin, making him whole where he had once been broken, John had decided then and there that he wanted to be a doctor. 

There’s a scar on the front of his right thigh, a smooth silver slash just below his hip, where he’d been cut with broken glass one Christmas home from uni when his father had been particularly drunk and angry. There had been fear and pain and lies to cover the truth, but hearing his father spitting venom and slurs his way, knowing that there was no chance this could ever be repaired, that just going to uni wasn’t enough anymore, that he would go to the ends of the earth to avoid ever having to see the man again, John had decided then and there that he would join the army.

And then there’s the scar on the outside of his left thigh, fully healed but still pink and new, halfway between his knee and hip, where John had been shot by the woman he had married, not knowing who she really was until it was far too late. There had been so much blood and Sherlock’s sobs and John’s quiet calm, but feeling John’s heartbeat slowing under his own two hands, Sherlock had decided then and there that he needed to say it, that John needed to know, that he needed to kiss the man he loved for what may be the first and only time. And tasting the truth of Sherlock’s words in that sweet slide of lips, John had decided then and there that he would do everything he could to live.

And so Sherlock worships at the altar of John’s thighs, paying tribute to all that could have kept them apart and all that finally brought them together, offering up prayers in wet kisses and warm hands and whispered words of desire and gratitude and love.


	15. John's throat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, smut

Sherlock is in a strop. A colossal strop. The kind that makes every single person within 500 meters of the great git want to absolutely wring his neck. Thankfully, they’re in a conference room at NSY, not in the middle of the street where someone might actually act on that impulse. John, Lestrade, and the four most thick-skinned members of Lestrade’s team have been here for hours pouring through files and doing their best to deal with Sherlock’s increasing frustration at not being able to find the answer he’s looking for. 

When Sherlock calls someone stupid five times in one long, breathless, unending sentence, John decides it’s time to take action. He grabs Sherlock by the arm and pulls him bodily from the room, muttering a quick  _excuse us_  to everyone else. John drags him down the hall, peeking into offices until he finds one that’s empty, tugging Sherlock inside. As soon as he’s closed and locked the door behind them, John pushes Sherlock up against the wall, and Sherlock’s eyes go wide in shock. “John, what the hell are you doing?”

“Dealing with this,” John says before running his tongue up Sherlock’s neck and biting at the tender spot he knows drives Sherlock wild. Sherlock groans, and John smiles up at him wickedly. He captures that perfect mouth in a bruising kiss, while his hands work to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers. He snakes a hand into Sherlock’s pants and is surprised to find him already fully hard. “Oh, you like this, do you?”

Sherlock  _mmmm_ s in response as he kisses his way down John’s throat and presses a palm to the front of John’s trousers, palming his growing erection. John loses himself in the sensation, but when Sherlock sucks hard enough to leave a mark, he comes back to himself and pushes Sherlock away. “This isn’t about me,” he says and uses both hands to shove Sherlock’s trousers and pants down until his cock springs free. John wraps one hand around him and starts to stroke, lazily at first so as not to overstimulate him but quickly growing faster and firmer. He noses along Sherlock’s jaw, sucks lightly on his earlobe, whispers filthy encouragements into his ear.  _You love having my hand on your cock, don’t you? Love that someone could walk in on us. I bet you’d like it if I bent you over that desk and fucked you right here, wouldn’t you? Just push into that gorgeous arse of yours and do whatever I want to you. Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you right here where anyone could see?_

When Sherlock’s muscles start to tense, when his panting gets louder, when he starts to moan into John’s mouth as their tongues swirl, John slows his stroke, his grasp teasingly light, and Sherlock whines brokenly. He pulls his head back and watches Sherlock’s face crinkle in frustration as he continues to tease him. 

“Now, are you going to be nicer to everyone out there?” Sherlock nods. “Are you going to stop insulting them?” Another desperate nod. “Are you going to stop acting like such a tit?”

“Yes, John, whatever you want. Whatever…” Sherlock pants.

“Good.” John resumes his quick, firm strokes, twisting at the end of each long pull just the way Sherlock likes. “Now come for me.” Sherlock’s entire body jolts at the command, and John bends down to wrap his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock just as he starts to come. He moans wantonly, his hips bucking as John swallows down each spurt. When the last waves of Sherlock’s orgasm subside, John straightens and kisses him, licking into his mouth so that Sherlock can taste himself on John’s tongue. When they pull apart again, Sherlock’s tiny, satisfied smile tells John his solution is working splendidly. “Now, let’s get you all straightened up and go solve this case.”

 

Back in the conference room, Sherlock returns to his work without a word, and the first time someone dares to speak to him, he responds in a manner so civil that nearly everyone in the room turns to look at him in shock. John just smiles. Lestrade looks back and forth between the two of them suspiciously, noticing Sherlock’s unusually relaxed posture and the purple bruise on John’s throat. Part of him wants to tell them to keep it to their bedroom, but really, if a quick shag will make Sherlock behave, they can pop off to the loo or a broom cupboard whenever they bloody well please. So instead he just shakes his head and pulls out the next folder to see if it holds the clue they’re looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one wasn't technically _about_ John's throat, but it makes for a central plot point, or whatever. It's close enough.


	16. John's epiglottis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, fluff, Sherlock made dinner

John came home to find that Sherlock had cleaned the flat. It was tidy and dust-free and entirely baffling. John would have thought he’d wandered into the wrong home and might have turned right around and left again had he not been greeted by such familiar furniture and the oddities only found in 221B–a cow skull wearing headphones, for example. 

Sherlock’s voice floated out of the kitchen along with the scent of something delectable. “Stop gaping, John, and come join me in here.”

“What’d you order for us tonight?” John called as he hung up his coat and scarf. He turned and padded into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw what lay before him. The kitchen table was set for a full three-course meal, accompanied by a small vase full of simply and tastefully arranged white carnations, tall taper candles, a rather expensive bottle of wine, cloth napkins, and even a tablecloth. (Where in the hell had Sherlock found cloth napkins and a tablecloth?)

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock answered, his uncanny ability to know what John was thinking still somewhat unsettling after all these years.

John grinned up at him dumbfounded. “Sherlock, what is all this?”

“Dinner.”

“Well, yes, I can see that, but… why?”

“I wanted to do something nice,“ Sherlock responded, beginning to look a bit nervous.

Now John was suspicious. “Did you blow anything up today?” Sherlock shook his head. “Injure yourself?” Another shake. “Set fire to another one of my jumpers?”

Sherlock huffed an irritated sigh. “That was  _one_  time.”

“It was a gift from Harry.”

“It was hideous.”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point.” John pinched the bridge of his nose in weary frustration. This was at least the fourth time they’d had this argument. “Okay. Did you do anything at all that you’re using this dinner to make up for?”

“No. Can’t I just do something nice for my… for you without it being an apology?”

“Of course you can. You just don’t.” Seeing the affronted look on Sherlock’s face, John added, “Usually.”

Sherlock looked down at the table and absently played with the place setting. “Oh hey, no, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John said, crossing the room and pulling his… (His what? They really should decide on a term for that. Partner? Boyfriend? A question for later…) and pulling Sherlock into his arms. “It’s very nice of you to do this for me. I was just surprised, that’s all.” He pressed a quick, soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips and smiled at him brightly. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Sherlock brightened instantly. John knew how much he secretly loved those little terms of endearment, and he had already learned to use them strategically to cheer Sherlock up when needed.

 

They sat down to the lovely dinner Sherlock had made. There was a spinach salad with some kind of fruity vinaigrette, linguine and mushrooms in a rosé cream sauce, and for dessert, decadent chocolate mousse. The food was delicious; Sherlock really was a good cook when he deigned to actually do it. They chatted a little about their day, but mostly they ate in fairly companionable silence, though John thought Sherlock still looked a little… off. Not enough to be noticeable to anyone else, but John could read him well by now and could see when he wasn’t quite his usual self. “Thank you for all this, love. It was perfect,” he said, trying to perk Sherlock up a bit.

Sherlock smiled shyly up at him, but it faded quickly and he dropped his gaze to his lap. John watched him, concerned. Eventually, he raised his head again. “John, I…” He stopped, and his forehead and nose crinkled in frustration. John looked at him curiously but knew to just let Sherlock quietly puzzle out whatever it was he was trying to say. He picked up his glass to enjoy his wine as he waited.

“We should get married,” Sherlock said suddenly, and John choked on his wine. He coughed and sputtered and struggled to gasp down badly needed air–the human body isn’t made to survive on lungfuls of white wine after all. Sherlock watched John cautiously until he could manage to speak.

“What? Sherlock, we’ve only been together for a month now,” John said. It was a sound argument, he thought, and he hoped it would make Sherlock see reason. 

But Sherlock looked crestfallen. His shoulders slumped, and his head hung; John could see him withdrawing into himself. He needed to clarify before Sherlock shut him out completely. “Sherlock,” he said sharply to get his attention before continuing more softly. “I don’t mean that I don’t want to marry you someday. I love you. Completely. Madly. I love you more than anything. It’s just, people don’t get engaged after only a month together. It’s not… logical.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped. They stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to explain. “None of this is logical, John. You loving me. Me loving you. If either of us had any sense at all, we’d run far, far away from each other. But here I am, and there you are, and it absolutely defies all reason. If I obeyed logic when it came to you, all those years ago I would have let you limp right back out of that lab and out of my life. But I did the most illogical thing I could imagine–I asked you to move in with me. Befriending you was irrational. Falling in love with you, even more so. And a month ago when you looked up at me from your chair, all the warmth and affection you felt reflected in your eyes, just pouring out of you, I could have done the sensible thing and looked away, like so many times before. But I did something illogical. I let you see. I let you see what I felt, too, let you see it in a way I never had before. And it was terrifying and exhilarating and utterly illogical, but we wouldn’t be here tonight if I hadn’t. I am a man of reason, yes, but _we…_  together we are absolutely unreasonable. So yes, for other people it might make sense to wait, but since when have we ever bothered to behave like other people? I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you, John Watson. In spite of all logic, I love you, and if you feel the same, I would like it very much if you married me.”

John stared at him in shock. He found himself blinking stupidly at Sherlock as he tried to process everything he’d just heard. It reminded him of when he had asked Sherlock to be his best man, how he hadn’t understood then that he was John’s best friend, and here John was now, in the same position, having not understood what was right in front of him. John loved Sherlock–quite irrationally as Sherlock had pointed out–and,  _of course_ , he was going to spend his life with him. There hadn’t really ever been a question about that. The reason people waited was because they needed to make sure this was real, that their love wasn’t going to fade, that they weren’t going to change their minds. But John knew that neither he nor Sherlock were going to have second thoughts about this. They had both loved each other for so long, and waiting wasn’t going to change that one bit.

“Yes,” John said, and Sherlock’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “Absolutely yes. I’ll marry you. I’m tired of waiting.” And then they were both on their feet, stepping around the table to seal the promise with a kiss. When they broke apart, they were both grinning giddily. John took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him toward their bedroom. “Come on. I want to celebrate with my fiancé,” he said with a smile, pleased at how easily the phrase rolled off his tongue.  _My fiancé. Not boyfriend. Not partner. Fiancé. And eventually, husband. Yes, that will do quite nicely_ , he thought as he pushed the door closed behind them.


	17. Sherlock's back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, parentlock, scars

John and Sherlock are fast asleep when little feet shuffle into the room. John wakes as the mattress dips and a very small someone climbs up onto the bed and wiggles in between him and Sherlock. He cracks an eye open and is greeted by the first hints of sunlight and one dark-haired little boy who should still be in his own bed. He turns to glance at the clock, 5:42 am, and then ruffles a hand through the boy’s unruly mop of curls. “Hamish, what are you doing in here?” he asks with a yawn.

“I couldn’t sleep, daddy.”

John lifts his arm in invitation, and Hamish curls up next to him. He drapes his arm over his son, closing his eyes and snuggling the boy closer. “You’re just like your papa,” he says fondly.

“Am I?” Hamish asks, and John smiles at the wonder in his voice.

“Yes, you are. You’re both picky eaters. You’re both so very smart. And you’re both terrible at getting enough sleep.”

The man on the other side of the bed grumbles, “It’d be much easier if people weren’t next to me talking.” He turns his back to his husband and son and pulls the pillow over his head to block out the noise. John and Hamish both laugh.

They’re quiet for a while, and John is slowly drifting off again, when Hamish’s voice floats up to him in a whisper. “Daddy?”

“Yes, love?”

“What are all those lines on papa’s back?”

John opens his eyes and blanches. After the late night they had had wrapping up their most recent case, they had barely made it to bed before collapsing, and apparently Sherlock had done so without bothering to put on a shirt first, leaving every single mark visible to Hamish and John now that he had turned his back to them. They’re usually so careful not to let their son see Sherlock’s scars, partially out of concern that they may frighten him and partially to avoid these kinds of questions.

They’ve made it their policy to not lie to their son (though that doesn’t mean they always tell him the whole truth), so John knows he can’t just make something up. But how do you explain those kind of scars to a four-year-old?

\----------

John remembers the first time he saw them. He had moved back to Baker Street, and over the next few weeks, comfortable silences and warm smiles had led to casual touches and longing glances. Then one night they had found themselves far closer on the sofa than they had been when they’d started the night, thighs and arms brushing as they laughed at Sherlock’s commentary about the bad spy movie they were watching. In a moment of bravery, John had slipped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and to his great delight Sherlock had snuggled down into his embrace, leaning his head on John’s shoulder to watch the rest of the movie. As the credits rolled, John had pressed a quick kiss to the top of that curly head, and when Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, it had seemed like the perfect moment to press a kiss to those plump lips, too. Then there were more kisses and roving hands, soft sighs and whispered confessions. They retreated to the bedroom and proceeded to undress each other slowly, taking in each other’s beautiful imperfection with reverence and wonder, completely enraptured with having finally _finally_ found themselves in each other’s arms.

John had felt the scars before he saw them, the raised lines interrupting the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s otherwise perfect skin. He didn’t need to ask where they had come from; he knew that this had been the cost of Sherlock’s sacrifice for him, that Sherlock had paid for John’s life with pain and torment and his own tender flesh. And so John had turned Sherlock over and mapped every mark with his fingers, memorizing each reminder of how close they had come to truly losing one another, letting wet kisses mingle with silent tears as he whispered _thank you, I love you, I love you_ into each place where Sherlock had been broken apart and put back together again.

\----------

“Well…” John says, not quite sure what he’ll say until it tumbles out of his mouth. “Your papa got those a long time ago when he was being very, very brave.”

“Was he being brave for you?”

John smiles at his ability to read more into everything, already so very much like his father. What a handful the two of them are going to be someday. “Yes, he was. He was being brave for me. And for Uncle Greg. And for Mrs. Hudson.”

Hamish absorbs this new information for a moment before asking, “Was it because he loves you?”

John hadn’t known back then, hadn’t known how Sherlock felt, hadn’t known the extent of what Sherlock had gone through to keep him safe. But now he does, and as much pain and struggle as they had both been through because of it, he knew neither of them would change a thing. Ultimately it had brought them together. They had gotten married, they had had a beautiful son, and now they had a daughter on the way, too, and none of that would have been possible if on one grey and drizzly day long ago Sherlock Holmes hadn’t jumped off a roof to save John Watson’s life.

“Yes,” John tells their son. “He loved me so much, and I didn’t even know it. But I know now.” He stretches out his arm and places his palm against his husband’s back, brushing his fingers over the now-familiar scars. Sherlock sighs in his sleep and snuggles backward into John’s touch. “I know now.”


	18. Sherlock and John's eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, friends to lovers

Sherlock’s eyes were blue-grey the day we met, as if they were in the middle of coming to life, as if the clouds were breaking so that the sun could shine through. They met mine across the lab, and I knew.  _You’re what I’ve been waiting for._

\----------

John’s eyes were gunmetal the day we met, as if his dark thoughts had begun to physically manifest, bleeding through until all he could see was despair. They met mine across the lab, and I knew.  _You’re going to save me from myself_.

\----------

Sherlock’s eyes were aquamarine when he asked, “Want to see some more?” bright and full of golden, glittering promise. They gazed into mine uncomfortably close, and I knew.  _I will never be able to say no to this man._

\----------

John’s eyes were ocean blue when he looked at me from the doorstep–cane in hand, free of pain for the first time in months–sparkling with currents of joy and hope. They sought out mine across the entryway, and I knew.  _We’re going to spend our lives fixing each other, over and over again._

\----------

Sherlock’s eyes were the brightest sky blue the day he fell, as if they didn’t understand that his light was now gone. They didn’t meet mine, never would again, and I knew.  _I should have told him; maybe it would have saved him._

\----------

John’s eyes were steel the day I returned, hardened by anger and heartache and mistrust. They bored into mine across the table, and I knew.  _I’ve broken everything we ever had._

\----------

Sherlock’s eyes were silver the day I married Mary, soft and shining but devoid of color, as if it had all been leeched from him, blue and green siphoned off by cake samples and folded napkins, by bridesmaid dresses and guest lists. They caught mine on the dance floor, and I knew.  _I’ve made a terrible mistake_.

\----------

John’s eyes were midnight the day I was shot, calm and cool on the surface with deep, dark fear roiling beneath. They searched mine until mine fluttered shut, and I knew.  _I have to come back to him; please let me come back._

\----------

Sherlock’s eyes were mint on the day he left, pale and pained but refreshingly honest, as he said “I think it could work.” They pleaded with me to understand, and I knew.  _He just might love me the way I love him_.

\----------

John’s eyes were navy the day I told him, their deep, cool blue an appropriate counterpoint to the dark, warm crimson of his blood on my hands as I pressed on the wound in his leg. They found mine through the haze of the pain, and I knew that he knew. No words were necessary.

\----------

Sherlock’s eyes were emerald the day I first kissed him, brilliant pools of green that shone brightly in the dusky light of our sitting room. They stayed closed tight long after we parted, and I knew.  _I am finally where I’m meant to be._

\----------

John’s eyes were sapphire the day he asked me, a million flecks of platinum starlight dancing when I said yes, entire universes captured in his gaze. They reflected all the love I felt, and I knew.  _I’ll spend an eternity trying to make him happy._

\----------

Our eyes were kaleidoscopes the day we were married, casting every shade of blue and green and grey and gold, every hue of pain and love and loss and joy that had kept us apart and then finally brought us together. We beamed at each other in front of our family and friends, and we knew.  _This is the start of forever_.


	19. John's lower back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, meeting the family, very mildly nsfw

“It was lovely to meet you, John.”

“You, too,” John responds to… Lynnette? Lillian? Laurel? He has no idea. It’s the fifth of Sherlock’s cousins that he’s met this evening, along with various old family friends and everyone’s spouses (and sometimes children), and he’s having trouble remembering anything about any of them. It’s just an endless procession of nameless faces as he meets and greets what seems like practically every person Sherlock has ever met, all of them somehow crammed into the Holmes’ sitting room for Mrs. Holmes’ birthday party. It had taken John by surprise when Sherlock had said he wanted to attend, but John had readily agreed, knowing it was rare for Sherlock to want to spend time with his family. Now he’s somewhat regretting that hasty decision.

Sherlock’s firm hand on John’s lower back guides him toward the next cluster of guests, who greet Sherlock with fake smiles and excessively formal handshakes or cheek kisses, the same way everyone else has. It’s clear to John that they are all simply observing the required niceties and that none of them are actually happy to see each other–especially true for Sherlock who John can see detests every person to whom they’ve spoken so far. And yet Sherlock has been the very picture of civility, returning the handshakes and kisses with politeness John has rarely seen from him. His hand returns to the small of John’s back as he says for what must be at least the tenth or twelfth time tonight, “Allow me to introduce my boyfriend, Doctor John Watson.”

John is being paraded around as if he were a prize, and he hates it. But each time Sherlock introduces him, he emphasizes  _boyfriend_  and  _Doctor_  as if this were the proudest moment of his life, flashing everyone in the group a smug grin, his eyes sparkling with absolute delight, and John feels a fresh burst of adoration for the idiot. And so he lets Sherlock steer him from guest to guest, introducing him over and over to people he’ll never meet again (or even care to) so that Sherlock can enjoy this rare moment of satisfaction–of victory over people who, at best, ignored him as a child, and at worst… well, it’s best if John doesn’t think about that because it makes it a lot harder to politely shake hands with people when you’re thinking about punching them in the face.

One of these new acquaintances is talking–was his name Teddy?–and John reminds himself to at least pretend to pay attention. “Did you hear Violet’s big news yet? She’s engaged to the son of one of the Cabinet ministers. Transport or something.” The grin slides off Sherlock’s face as he looks around for his cousin Violet. He spots her over near the fireplace, showing off an enormous engagement ring to a small crowd who are oohing and aahing over it. “I hear he…”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock interrupts, sliding away through the door that leads to the kitchen, leaving John staring after him.

“Don’t mind him, John,” someone says, and John bristles at being addressed as if he doesn’t know Sherlock well. “He’s always been like that. He was the rudest child I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, because I’m sure you were so nice to him,” John snaps. His fingers twitch, and he has just enough good sense to say, “Excuse me,” and follow Sherlock from the room before he causes a scene.

He finds Sherlock leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the the opposite wall. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, but these people are awful.”

“Mmm. I know.”

John steps between Sherlock’s feet and wraps him in a tight embrace. They stand in silence, arms around each other, letting the proximity cheer them both. Once his own anger has receded, John asks, the words muffled where his face is pressed against Sherlock’s chest. “You want to tell me why you ran off like that?”

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “Violet.”

“I had worked that much out actually.”

“She’s engaged,” Sherlock says, as if that explains everything.

“So what? She’s engaged. Why does that upset you?” John can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes rolling, so he steps back and looks at Sherlock, really looks. He can figure this out. “Ok,” he says once he’s put it all together. “You’re mad because you thought this was your chance to show off to your family for once–to show me off–and now everyone is out there fawning over her news instead.” Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “How’d I do?”

“Very well, John. I’ll make a decent colleague out of you yet.”

“Git,” John chuckles, pressing up to kiss him. He threads his fingers into those soft curls, knowing that it never fails to make Sherlock gasp, and takes advantage of the opportunity to slide his tongue past Sherlock’s lips, letting it swirl and stroke and coax soft moans from that shrewd mouth. Sherlock’s hands slip down to John’s arse, pulling them closer together so that John can feel the hint of an erection. John kisses his way along one sharp cheekbone. “I bet I know what would make you feel better,” he says, nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe. “Why don’t we sneak upstairs, and I’ll fuck you in your old bedroom, right in the middle of this party?”

Sherlock groans and says, “I have a better idea. Let’s use Mycroft’s room.” 


	20. Lestrade's calves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade, pre-slash, set during THOB

It had been a nice holiday. Two entire weeks without having to see a corpse would have been holiday enough, but on top of that, he’d been able to get some fresh air, do a little sightseeing, work on getting a tan. But mostly he’d caught up on some badly needed sleep. 

Now that he’s back in London, it’s time to fall back into the usual routine, and that means starting the day with an early morning run. He heads out on his usual route, pushing himself hard to make up for two weeks of inactivity. Of course, that’s a mistake. Just past the halfway point of his circuit, his calves begin to cramp up, the muscles tightening painfully. He stops to stretch a bit and then tries to press onward, but each step adds to the sharp ache until he has to stop.

Just as he thinks,  _how in the hell am I going to get home now_ , a sleek black car slides up to the kerb, and Greg rolls his eyes. The rear door opens, and he expects to see Mycroft’s assistant–with whatever name she has chosen for herself today–step out of the car and is shocked to find himself face-to-face with Mycroft instead. “Detective Inspector,” he says, gesturing for Greg to climb in. 

When this had first started happening, Greg thought he had reacted quite normally in refusing to get into a car with a man he barely knew, but now he knows that it’s better to just do as Mycroft asks and get it over with. Plus, meetings with Mycroft always give him an opportunity to try to put together a bit more of the puzzle that is the more inscrutable of the Holmes brothers.

Greg hobbles over and carefully falls into the back seat, pushing over to the far side to make room for Mycroft who climbs gracefully in after him and nods to the driver. The car glides out into traffic and turns in the general direction of Greg’s flat.

As he waits for Mycroft to speak Greg rubs at his calves, but Mycroft seems content just to watch him, those keen blue eyes taking in who knows what details about his run or his holiday or his life. Greg has to break the silence. “Is there something I can do for you, Mycroft, or do you always just follow me around when I run?” He chuckles, but when Mycroft’s eyes narrow, he wonders if he’s overstepped a line somehow.

In response, Mycroft simply holds out a hand in his direction, as if waiting for Greg to hand him something. Greg’s brow wrinkles in confusion, and Mycroft huffs a weary sigh. “Your foot,” he says.

 _Not the weirdest thing he’s ever asked me for_ , Greg thinks, almost laughing aloud at the strange mess his life has become ever since the Holmes brothers first entered it. “I’m fine, thanks,” he says, continuing to massage his calves.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows expectantly and waits, until Greg finally has no choice but to give in, He turns toward Mycroft and lifts his leg to rest on the seat between them. Mycroft grips the toe of Greg’s shoe and pushes toward him, stretching his foot and, with it, his calf muscles. He holds it for several seconds, then releases his toes before repeating the process. The ache begins to dull, and Greg sags with relief. When Mycroft finishes with the first foot, Greg doesn’t hesitate to give him the other.

The rest of the ride passes in silence, and they pull up outside of Greg’s flat just as Mycroft finishes with his second foot.  Greg moves to open his door, but Mycroft finally says, “I need you to go to Dartmoor.”

“Dartmoor? What’s in Dartmoor?” Mycroft’s one raised eyebrow tells him all he needs to know. He sighs and asks, “What’s your brother up to this time?”

“Breaking into military bases.” 

Greg laughs before he realizes Mycroft isn’t joking. “Oh.”

“Quite.”

“Right. Well, I guess I’ll go pack.” Greg climbs out of the car, his calves now blissfully pain-free, and peeks his head back in to add, “Thanks. For the ride and… everything.”

Mycroft simply inclines his head in acknowledgement, not that Greg expected anything more. But as he closes the door, he could swear that he hears a quiet voice say, “It was my pleasure.”


	21. John's tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, smut and fluff

John knows that he has a talented mouth. What’s even more impressive is his talent for knowing precisely when and how to use it.

When Sherlock is working on an experiment and it isn’t producing results the way he wants, John licks his lips and plants a quick kiss on the back of Sherlock’s neck, leaving behind a small, wet patch. As it cools, the sensation makes Sherlock’s lips twist into a small smirk, the edge of his frustration fading away.

When Sherlock stays up late playing his violin, only coming to bed after he’s certain that the worst of John’s nightmares have been soothed, John wakes in the morning and kisses each and every fingertip, lapping at those rough, calloused hands, trying to give back even a tiny shadow of the comfort they have given him, showing Sherlock how very much he appreciates their thoughtful care.

When Sherlock is being impossible, John climbs into his lap and snogs him senseless. He licks along the line of those pouty lips until Sherlock gives in, and they sign their peace treaty with warm breath and twirling tongues.

When Sherlock looks especially gorgeous, wherever they are, John finds a quiet corner and nips at his earlobe. The small bite never fails to send a shiver down Sherlock’s spine and a jolt of heat straight to his cock. He always finds an excuse for them to slip away then so that John can show Sherlock just how beautiful he is.

When Sherlock is feeling insecure about his part in their relationship, when he thinks he isn’t good enough for John, that he never will be, John backs him against the wall and sucks a purple mark into Sherlock’s pale neck, swirling his tongue against the bruised skin to ease the sting. Every time Sherlock catches sight of it, he’s reminded that he’s John’s and John is his, and he feels that little bit more sure of himself again.

When Sherlock gets stuck on a case, when his hair is wild from running his hands through it, when he stops eating and tries to subsist on tea alone, John drags him into their bedroom (or the nearest enclosed space he can find) and kisses him firmly before he drops down and tugs Sherlock’s trousers and pants to his knees, kissing and licking at his soft cock, slowly pulling Sherlock’s focus out of his own head and into this moment. When Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair, John knows he has Sherlock’s full attention at last, and only then does he wrap his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock and slowly, tortuously slowly suck him down, sliding inch by inch along that hard flesh until his nose is buried in coarse, auburn curls and Sherlock is vibrating with the effort not to thrust. John hollows his cheeks and pulls back again, his pace just as unhurried, until Sherlock’s cock falls from his mouth with a wet pop. He trails his tongue and his lips over Sherlock’s thighs and hips and bollocks and belly, lavishing his attention on miles of creamy skin everywhere but where Sherlock wants it until he’s keening and wriggling with want. Then John grasps the base of Sherlock’s cock and waits for Sherlock’s eyes to find his before he darts out his tongue and licks the pre-come beading at the slit, relishing the way Sherlock’s breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed, how he moans wantonly when John finally swallows him down again. He bobs his head slow and steady, savoring every groan and pant and whine and curse that he wrenches from Sherlock’s throat. Enjoying the way Sherlock can’t resist rocking his hips to push just that little bit farther into John’s warm mouth. Loving that he can provide that great big brain of Sherlock’s this tiny silence, a break from the infernal roar of input it observes and categorizes and analyzes every other second of the day. He takes his time so that he can give Sherlock’s mind as much respite as he can manage, knowing that when it whirs to life again, Sherlock will be off and running, making connections and seeking solutions. John loves that he alone has the power to do that, to wrangle that beautiful brain in a way that brings it to a screeching halt and then sends it rocketing off again, somehow even more brilliant than before. So he works to build Sherlock’s pleasure, slow and deliberate, doing all the things he knows Sherlock loves, the things John knows keep him focused on the sandy-haired man at his feet and all the things that talented mouth can do. And when he feels Sherlock’s bollocks draw up and his cock thicken, when he swirls his tongue just so to push Sherlock over the edge, when Sherlock comes with his head thrown back and John’s name on his lips, John swallows down every spurt and sucks him gently through the ebbing waves of his orgasm, cherishing these last few moments where Sherlock is entirely his, before the work takes over again and John is running after him into the night once more.

And when the experiments are done and the cases are solved, when everything is sure and beautiful and possible and good, when they collapse into each other’s embrace and the world fades away and the only sound left is the beating of their hearts, John’s mouth demonstrates its greatest talent. It whispers  _amazing_  and  _gorgeous_  and  _brilliant_. It cries  _yes,_ _please,_   _Sherlock_. It reassures  _I need you now_ ,  _I’ve wanted you forever, I’ll love you always_. It speaks words Sherlock has always longed to hear, a tongue he thought would always be foreign, a language he thought was long dead to him. It makes him feel cherished and worthy and loved, not for what he can do but for who he truly is–a talent that will only ever be possessed by John Watson.


	22. Sherlock's ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, nsfw, dirty talk

Sherlock and John have developed a game they like to play when one of them gets bored. They’ve played it at home and on stakeouts, on holiday and at crime scenes, in the backs of cabs and, once, when they were at Sherlock’s parents house for Christmas. The rules are simple. Once the game begins, they can’t touch each other. That’s it. They can say whatever they want. They can touch themselves. But they can’t touch each other in any way. The first one to break that rule loses.

 

Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to attend a party at the Yard to appease John, but that doesn’t mean he’s enjoying himself. Even from across the room, John can see the way he’s starting to roll his eyes at everything and everyone, close to saying something rude–well, closer than usual anyway–so John decides it’s time for a distraction. “Excuse me,” he says to the small group with whom he’s been chatting and pushes his way through the packed room to Sherlock’s side. He tugs on Sherlock’s arm to bend his ear closer. “The game is on,” he whispers and slips away into the crowd again, barely hearing Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath behind him. He knows that this will keep Sherlock occupied; he’ll be thinking of strategies, of things to say or do, rather than deducing everyone else’s secrets or thinking up creative new insults. And even though Sherlock always wins, John usually doesn’t mind because, really, there is no loser in this game; no matter who wins, they’ll both get what they want. But tonight John decides it’s finally time to win.

*****

The next time John sees Sherlock, he’s talking to a man John recognizes as a member of the organized crimes division. a rather attractive man who is clearly inebriated and far too interested in Sherlock for John’s taste. Sherlock throws his head back in laughter, exposing that long column of alabaster throat. The man licks his lips as he stares and then reaches out to casually place a hand on Sherlock’s bicep as they continue to chuckle. Jealousy flares hot and bright in John’s chest, and he wants to force his way between them and stake his claim. Sherlock throws a quick glance and a wink his way before continuing his conversation, and John struggles to keep himself under control, not wanting to lose the game already. He breathes through his rage and focuses on a way to get Sherlock back.

*****

When the woman Sherlock’s chatting with stands up from the table, John takes the seat she vacates and leans over toward Sherlock, dropping his voice low so no one else can hear. “I should teach you a lesson for that little stunt. Nobody else touches you. You’re mine,” he growls. The way Sherlock’s breath hitches encourages him to keep going. “Maybe I should show everyone here that you’re off-limits. I could cover you in little bites, suck a deep purple bruise into that gorgeous neck, mark my claim. Would you like that? Is that what you really want, for everyone here to know that you’re mine?” Sherlock’s breathy grunt gives him all the confirmation needs, and it’s tempting, so tempting to actually do it, to give in and give him what he wants, but that would mean John would still lose. “Too bad,” he says instead and walks away.

*****

John’s chatting with Lestrade and Sally and a few others, when Sherlock joins them, placing himself directly across from John in their little circle. As Sally continues her story, Sherlock locks eyes with John, and his fingers go to his mouth the way they sometimes do when he’s deep in thought, stroking back and forth across that plump bottom lip, tracing that deep, delicious bow in his top lip. He slips the tip of his middle finger just past his teeth, and John can see the hint of tongue that flicks at the end, moistening it before he resumes stroking, leaving his lips wet and glistening and lewdly enticing. John wants to pull that bottom lip between his teeth, to slide his tongue inside that perfect mouth, to let Sherlock’s taste overwhelm him, but he can’t. So instead he turns and walks away without a word.

*****

Sherlock slips out a little used side door to escape the stuffy heat of the crowded party, and if he’s surprised to find John waiting for him, he doesn’t let it show. John doesn’t say a word. He just steps close to Sherlock and bends down to tie his shoe. His knee still on the ground, he straightens up and leans toward Sherlock, his mouth close to but not quite touching the fabric of those expensive trousers. He closes his eyes and bites his lip as if all he’s trying desperately not to close the remaining distance between them. It’s only half an act. When he moans, he can hear Sherlock’s breath quicken. “God, I want you,” he says, looking up into those wild, silver-green eyes. “I want you so badly, Sherlock. Will you let me suck your cock? Right here? Please. I want to.” He palms his own growing erection and moans again, and this time it isn’t an act. He knows he needs to be careful or he is going to cause himself to lose, but it’s worth it to hear the tiny, breathy  _fuck_  that drops from Sherlock’s lips. With a wicked grin, he stands and slides back through the door to the party.

*****

John steps into the loo and tries his best to ignore the footsteps that follow him in or the click of the lock behind him. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look over his shoulder, just goes about what he came to do and then resolutely walks to the sink to wash his hands, surprised that Sherlock hasn’t yet said a word or crowded into his space or done anything at all to tempt him. He steels himself before he turns to leave, knowing that he can’t make it out the door without seeing Sherlock, but he still isn’t prepared for what he finds. Sherlock is sagging against the back of the door, blocking the only exit, with his trousers unzipped. It’s evident that he isn’t wearing any pants–a trail of dark, russet curls visible in the open v of the fabric, leading to Sherlock’s long cock, which he takes in hand and starts to stroke leisurely from tip to base and back again. The sight doesn’t make heat pool between John’s legs; it sends a flood of it, the blood rushing from his head so quickly he feels dizzy. Sherlock tilts his head to the side, exposing that beautiful neck, and breathes, “Oh, John,” and John clenches his fists as he struggles not to touch. Sherlock’s hand moves faster, and he moans obscenely, his teeth digging into his plush lower lip. “John. Oh, god, John.” John closes his eyes and forces deep, calming breaths in and out of his lungs, but his eyes pop open again when Sherlock begins to beg. “Please. Please, John. I need you to touch me. I need to come. Please. John, please make me come.” John knows it’s at least partially an act, but it still takes every ounce of his willpower to resist. If he’s going to win he needs to end this now.

He steps in front of Sherlock, bracing his hands on the door on either side of Sherlock’s head, careful to keep his body as far away from Sherlock’s as he can manage. He looks Sherlock in the eye and asks, “How do you want me to make you come? Do you want me to get on my knees and suck you until you come in my mouth?” Sherlock whines, his brow wrinkling in frustration, and John smiles. “Or do you want me to use my hand, to stroke you off and let you come on my face maybe?” Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and his head lolls to the side as his control starts to slip. “Or maybe you want me to turn you around and fuck you right here. Is that what you want? Do you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you scream?” Sherlock’s chest is heaving as he fights to maintain the last tenuous string of his resolve. He hasn’t snapped yet, but John knows exactly what will push him over the edge. He bends his mouth to Sherlock’s ear, letting his warm breath ghost across Sherlock’s skin as he whispers, “I know what you want. And if you touch me now, I’ll give it to you. All you have to do is touch me. One finger. One kiss. Anything. Touch me, and I’ll take you home right now and let you fuck me.”

John opens his mouth to say more, but Sherlock cuts off the rest of his words with a desperate kiss. “Yes,” he pants against John’s lips. “Oh god yes.”

Three minutes later they’re in a cab, John having finally won the game and more than happy to be heading home to receive his prize.


	23. Sherlock's nape curl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pining John, first kiss

In the end, it was that little curl of hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck that did it. 

John had spent years pining over crystal eyes and striking cheekbones, dexterous violinists fingers and those long, lithe limbs. He’d imagined how Sherlock would taste, wondered if the crook between his sinuous neck and sharp shoulder would taste different from a pink peaked nipple, if the small of his back would taste different from the inside of his thighs, if his plush lips would taste different from his clever, curling tongue. He’d dreamed of how Sherlock would smell fresh out of the shower, caught in spring rain, after a night spent in each other’s arms. He’d pictured how Sherlock’s face would look as John pushed inside him for the first time, how his voice would sound as John rolled his hips slow and sweet and ceaseless, how his body would feel as it clenched around John as he started to come. 

John yearned for more. Sherlock’s name was already writ large across his heart. He wanted it written across his skin, too, burned into him like a brand for everyone to see, for Sherlock to see, for him to know that every piece of John Watson already belonged to Sherlock Holmes. But he had managed to resist taking that step forward, always yearning to be more but terrified to reach, to be rejected, to ultimately be less. So though John had spent years adoring every part of Sherlock, from dark curls to long toes, brilliant brain to half-hidden heart, though he had waited and watched and admired, he’d never reached.

Until.

Sherlock had been playing his violin as soft, autumn rain pattered against the window. John never knew the names of the things he played, but this one had been particularly quiet and contemplative and just a little bit sad. It filled him with longing, with the desire to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him until their hearts beat out a happier rhythm. His fingers twitched at the urge, but still he couldn’t reach. So instead he made tea, needing something, _anything_  to occupy his hands, letting the familiar cadence of kettle and cups soothe the ache in his chest. Still, he couldn’t resist standing at the kitchen door as he waited for the kettle to boil, watching the way Sherlock swayed with his song, as if his whole body were an instrument–every tendon and nerve, every vein and capillary a tightly-wound string vibrating against fragile bones until music flowed from every pore. John was captivated by the rise and fall of his elbow as he pulled the bow across the violin, by the subtle swing of his shoulders, by the way his whole frame transformed into something softer and more supple as he played, rounding all his sharp edges, like sea glass worn smooth. Flowing arms and practiced hands, long legs and bare feet–every part of him was mesmerizing, but what caught and held John’s attention was the solitary curl at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. John wondered what it would be like to twine it around his finger, to press his mouth to that patch of bare skin and feel that curl tickle his lip, to put his nose to it and breathe Sherlock deep into his lungs. He didn’t even realize that his feet had carried him across the sitting room until he found himself behind Sherlock, close enough to touch, as the last notes of Sherlock’s song shimmered in the air around them. And finally,  _finally_  he reached.

He brushed a tentative but steady hand across the back of Sherlock’s neck, that one stray curl silky between his fingers, and Sherlock leaned back into the touch. Confidence growing, John slid in front of Sherlock, taking the violin and bow from his hands and setting them on the desk, Sherlock’s curious eyes never leaving his face. He stepped close, one hand slipping back to Sherlock’s neck, the feeling of that lonely curl between his fingers bolstering his courage. He laid the other against Sherlock’s chest, the reassuring pulse of that beating heart against his palm, a steady metronome keeping them in time with one another, their movements in sync as Sherlock bent his head and John pressed up on his toes until their lips met, a completed circuit, an unbreakable bond, a mobius strip of all the things they’d felt but been too afraid to say. 

After years of wondering, John finally knew how Sherlock’s tongue tasted as it slid against his own. How his breath felt blowing warm and moist across John’s neck. How his voice sounded as he broke apart in John’s arms. How his hair smelled when he was tucked against John’s chest, sleepy and satisfied. How his eyes looked when everything else was stripped away and all that remained was love. 

All because of a solitary curl that John had finally allowed himself to reach out and touch.


	24. Sherlock's lower back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, waltzing

“I’m still not sure what to do at the end. It feels weird to just… stop,” John says as they break apart.

“You could dip her,” Sherlock offers against his better judgment. He knows he should just let it go--let _him_ go--but here’s a chance to keep John in his grasp a little longer and he’s going to seize it if John will let him. John has been a better student than Sherlock expected, picking up on the steps with ease, his proficiency coming far more quickly than Sherlock would like. They won’t have an excuse to keep practicing soon, which means Sherlock will never again get to take John’s hand in his or feel the gentle, guiding pressure of John’s grip on his waist. But this, this will give them something else to practice, something to prolong Sherlock’s time in John’s arms.

“I’m not _that_ good. Isn’t that getting a bit too complicated?”

“Not at all. I’ll teach you.” He steps forward again and extends his arms, waiting for John to take his place. When John’s soft palm slips into his hand, Sherlock has to force himself not to sigh in relief. John’s other hand goes to Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock’s goes to John’s shoulder, and he can feel the quiet energy flowing through them where their bodies are connected, as if together like this they make a completed circuit. He wonders what it would be like if that connection were more intimate. How electrifying would it feel if it were more than just hands touching--if it were lips and chests and thighs and more? He has to force himself to take a cleansing breath, to push the thoughts from his mind, before he can meet John’s gaze, terrified that he might see the images flashing behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Ready?” he asks, as steadily as he can manage.

John nods, so Sherlock begins to explain the mechanics of the dip. “The key is for you to stay standing as straight up and down as possible. If you lean over, you’re more likely to drop m- her or for both of you to fall.”

“Well that would be embarrassing,” John chuckles.

“Quite,” Sherlock replies with a quick, tight-lipped smile. John squeezes his hand, and it takes Sherlock a second to remember what he was talking about. “Right. So. You’ll let go of her hand,” he says, and John releases his grip. “And place your hand between her shoulders instead as she leans back. You can slide your other hand farther around to the back if needed for support.” John brings his free hand around to place it between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the position slightly awkward with their height difference, and splays the fingers of his other hand across Sherlock’s lower back. The change in hand placement brings their bodies closer together, and Sherlock forgets everything that isn’t this contact, this moment. Only when John looks up at him expectantly does he finally remember to respond. “Um… Good,” he says, swallowing down the desire swelling inside of him. “Now, um, now bring your leg forward to widen your stance, and bend your knee. And remember, don’t lean over.”

John does as instructed, and Sherlock allows himself to lean back into the dip, trusting that John will keep hold of him. John doesn’t dip him far, just enough to test out the concept, before he pulls Sherlock back to his feet. “Ok. I think I’ve got it. Should we try it with music?”

Sherlock nods and turns toward the mp3 player, grateful for a moment to escape John’s gaze while he marshals his thoughts and steadies his breath. He starts the waltz over and resumes his place within John’s arms. John leads them around the sitting room in time with the gentle _one, two, three, one, two, three_ of the piece Sherlock has composed specifically for the wedding--specifically for John. Sherlock had poured his thoughts and feelings into it, letting his sentiment flow through each note, allowing it to become a love letter of sorts, a statement of the things he’s never said and now never will. The resulting sound is bittersweet, speaking of love and longing, of laughter and sorrow, of Sherlock’s desire for John’s happiness and his selfish yearning to keep John to himself. The music reflects Sherlock’s warring emotions better than he could ever possibly put into words. It is perhaps an inappropriate choice of composition for John’s wedding, but when has Sherlock ever really cared about impropriety? This will be his only chance to show John a glimpse of how he feels, even if John won’t see it as such, and he’s going to take the opportunity to let his composition speak for him as best it can.

“Sherlock,” John says, the name a hesitant question on his tongue, as they continue to dance around the room. Sherlock pulls himself out of his head and meets John’s gaze. When their eyes lock, he feels that familiar warmth begin to spread. It burns through him, the heat of his desire, of their unspoken connection, scorching through his veins, setting fire to his fingers and his toes and every solitary cell in between, smoldering beneath his skin until his entire body is ablaze. He can feel himself melting under the flames, all the essential bits of him breaking down, dripping from his bones thick and sweet like honey.

Neither of them looks away as they waltz on, the connection only growing stronger as they allow themselves to breathe life into it. _This is what it could be like_ , Sherlock thinks. If John were his, this fire between them would be allowed to catch and thrive, to burn hot and bright as they allowed it to consume them. If John were his, he would spend his days stoking the flames rather than extinguishing them, adding fuel to keep the inferno inside them roaring rather than raking across dying embers. If John were his, they could waltz whenever they wanted, with no worries about open curtains or Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on their stairs. If John were his, Sherlock would bend his head and close the distance between their lips, letting them speak their desires in the twining of tongues and the sharing of breath. If John were his.

The end of the song sneaks up on him, and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as in one smooth motion John moves his hands to their proper places between Sherlock’s shoulders and on the small of his back, and takes a wide step forward. Sherlock falls back in John’s arms in a deep dip, tethered to the man he loves by the small, steady hands on his back and the power of their eyes on one another. The air between them shimmers with heat, and Sherlock lets himself believe for just a moment that this could be possible. John’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips, his eyes darting to Sherlock’s mouth and back, as if asking for permission. Unable to bring himself to speak, to break the potential of this moment, Sherlock responds in kind, flicking his gaze to John’s lips and back up to meet his sapphire eyes, hoping his _yes_ is clear enough. When John starts to bend his head, his mouth inching closer, Sherlock lets his eyes flutter closed. He can feel the small, quick puffs of John’s breath warm and moist across his lips.

A loud buzz rattles from the coffee table, distracting John, throwing them off balance, and sending them both crashing to the floor. Sherlock lands flat on his back, his head hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump. John’s knee smashes into the ground, but he manages to get his arms out in front of him in time to keep himself from face-planting. He groans as he sits back on his heels, offering Sherlock a hand and pulling him up so that he’s at least sitting rather than sprawled on the floor. “You okay?” he asks. Without waiting for a response, he slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, fingertips probing gently at the tender flesh at the back of his head. Sherlock winces, and John mumbles, “Sorry,” pulling his hands back a bit but leaving his fingers still twined in Sherlock’s curls. John’s concerned eyes catch his, and even through the pain, Sherlock can feel the soft smolder starting to spread again. A thumb sweeps up and down against his left temple, and he leans into the gesture, letting John’s touch soothe him. It would still be so easy to close the distance between them. It had seemed for a moment that they could. Perhaps they still can.

Sherlock inches forward, watching John’s face for any sign that he should stop and seeing none. Instead he sees encouragement in those hungry eyes and desperate lips, feels it in the way John’s fingers tighten in his curls. He sees want and need and maybe something more, allowing himself to hope that maybe he isn’t alone in wanting this after all. But he needs to be sure. He has to know for certain that John wants this, too. He pauses, their lips nearly brushing, and breathes, “Can I?”

John’s lips part to respond, but his mobile buzzes again, clattering loudly against the table. Sherlock pulls back as John closes his eyes and sighs. He untangles his hands from Sherlock’s hair, reluctantly leaning over to pluck the phone from the table. He reads the message, a crease forming on his forehead, and taps out a quick response, sighing again as he stuffs the phone into his pocket. “I have to go,” he says, standing and sticking out a hand toward Sherlock. Sherlock ignores it and pushes himself to his feet, trying to tamp down the bitter disappointment welling up inside of him. He’s annoyed at Mary for interrupting, annoyed at John for letting her, annoyed at himself for hoping that this could have turned into something more. John’s getting married. He’s made his decision. It isn’t Sherlock that he really wants, and it never will be. And Sherlock has to start accepting that.

He turns and walks to the window when John reaches for his coat. He knows he has to let John go, but he can’t watch John leave. He can’t. From behind him, Sherlock can hear John slip on his coat and pull open the door, his footsteps hesitating before he swivels back around. “Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock turns to face him. John is standing in the doorway, looking torn. As much as Sherlock wants to tell him to stay, to beg him if he has to, he knows it isn’t what’s best for John. This is a fantasy. Everything Sherlock wants, everything he allows himself to imagine John could want--it isn’t real. And more importantly, it isn’t what will make John happy. “Go home, John,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t want to keep Mary waiting.” The set of John’s jaw tells Sherlock that he’s warring with himself, trying to decide if he should say what he started to say or if he should just leave. He watches Sherlock, looking for some kind of sign perhaps, something to make the decision for him. Sherlock gives him none, though inside he’s breaking, this fantasy shattering into tiny pieces along with his fragile heart.

Eventually John gives him a sharp nod, and before he can step toward the door again, Sherlock turns back to the window, struggling to maintain his composure as everything crumbles around him. The door snaps closed, and he manages to hold back until he hears John’s feet hit the entryway floor. Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa, curling in on himself and letting the tears fall. They run hot and fast down his face, and though he tries to stay silent, a sob breaks through, heavy and harsh as it’s wrenched from his throat, his body trembling with the failing effort to keep in the others threatening to escape. He cries hard and loud, his disappointment and longing and self-loathing and need all pouring from him with every tear. His own pain becomes his sole focus, so he never hears the sound of hurried footsteps on stairs, the click of a door opening, that familiar tread crossing the distance between them. He barely registers the way the sofa dips behind him as someone sits or the gentle pressure of a hip grazing against the small of his back. All he hears and feels and knows is John-- _John left, John doesn’t want him, John is getting married, John, John, John._ Until a voice that sounds as broken as he feels breathes, “Sherlock.”


	25. John's hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, established relationship, fluff, sequel to chapter 24
> 
> (You don't HAVE to read chapter 24 to understand this one, but there is at least a reference to it.)

“John, why are we cutting through the park?”

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and keeps walking. “You’ll see.” Sherlock huffs in irritation, but John can see right through it. He knows that Sherlock loves surprises, whenever John can actually manage to keep something from him. He smiles to himself in the darkness, glad that he’s been able to keep this particular surprise hidden.

They walk hand-in-hand down the path that leads toward their flat, but as they come to a tree, John pulls Sherlock aside to stand under the dark canopy of leaves. Sherlock looks wary when John turns to face him.

“Do you remember this spot?” John asks.

Sherlock’s face softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Of course I do,” he says. “This is where you first kissed me.” As if to prove that he remembers, he bends his head and brushes his lips against John’s in a sweet, chaste kiss.

John’s head swims with the memory of that first kiss, with the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his now, with the knowledge of what he’s about to do. When they part, he has to shake his head to clear his thoughts and refocus on the task at hand. He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, finding comfort and clarity in that gaze, and says, “I kissed you right here under this tree a year ago today. I should have done it so much sooner.” He takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his, marveling for the hundredth time at how much larger Sherlock’s are than his and yet how they still fit so well together despite their differences–a bit like the two of them, really.

“I should have kissed you that day on the sofa, when I came back up to the flat after our dance lesson. I wanted to. I held you and wiped away your tears and listened to your quiet confession, and when we both finally realized that we wanted the same thing, it would have been so easy to kiss you then. But I didn’t want everything with Mary still hanging over us, so I didn’t kiss you. I waited.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt, and John shakes his head. “Please, I need to say this.” Sherlock nods, so John squeezes his hands and continues.

“I should have kissed you that day in the tube carriage with that bloody bomb. But even though I forgave you, I still didn’t know if I could trust you, so I didn’t kiss you. I should have kissed you when you walked into that damn restaurant with that stupid, drawn-on mustache. But I was so angry at you for leaving me, for letting me believe you were dead and then just waltzing back into my life as if you’d only been on holiday, so I didn’t kiss you.”

John swallows against the growing tightness in his throat and makes himself keep going. “I should have kissed you before you jumped, before Moriarty ruined everything. I should have kissed you after you called me your conductor of light. I should have kissed you when you stole me an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. I should have kissed you after you ripped that bomb off my chest, after you rescued me from the Black Lotus, after I shot that cabbie to save you. I should have kissed you at breakfast, over takeaway, watching telly, in front of the fire, on our doorstep. I should have kissed you every single time I wanted to, every time I thought you were the only one I’d ever want to spend my life with, every time you took my breath away with your beauty and your brilliance. I should have spent every minute of every day kissing you, but I didn’t. I waited. And even though it took us so long to get here, it was worth the wait.”

John glances away and tries to blink back the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and now it’s Sherlock’s turn to squeeze his hands instead. He takes a deep breath, steadily blowing it out as he looks back up at Sherlock, who already has a wet trail down each cheek but a smile on his face. “It was worth the wait,” John says again. “But I don’t want to ever have to wait again. I love you, and I want to spend every day of the rest of my life kissing you. So…” His tongue darts out nervously. “Sherlock Holmes, will yo-”

Sherlock’s mouth presses against John’s, cutting off the rest of his words. He pulls back long enough to whisper  _yes_  against John’s lips before kissing him again.

John doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped up in each other, sealing this promise with lips and tongues, mingled breaths and happy tears, but when they break apart they start to laugh because they’re both such a mess. John wipes his face as Sherlock does the same, and when they’re somewhat presentable again, John takes Sherlock’s hand and pulls him back toward the path that leads to Baker Street. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home and go to bed.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies. “I remember what we did the first time there, too.”


	26. John's baggy eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, missing scene, HLV

John splashes cool water on his face in a half-hearted attempt to wash away the grime of a long night. Patting his face dry, he checks his reflection in the mirror and sighs at the heavy bags under his eyes, exhaustion and stress evident in every line of his face. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, trying to rub some of the tension from his scalp.  _It’s going to be okay_ , he tells himself.  _He’s going to be fine_.

The reality is that he doesn’t know if Sherlock’s going to be fine. Not yet. He’d come through surgery okay, but he’s not entirely out of the woods. There’s still the risk of internal bleeding and other potentially deadly complications. John knows he won’t be able to relax until Sherlock is well enough to be cleared to go home. Of course, keeping him here that long will be a struggle; Sherlock never has been one to stay put for very long, even when his own life is at risk.

John flips off the light and opens the door, his eyes immediately seeking out the still figure on the bed–the man he’d come so close to losing again. For the second time in their acquaintance, he’d come face-to-face with Sherlock’s pale, bloodied, unmoving body. But at least this time he’d been able to do something, to try to save the man he… to try to save Sherlock. In the moment, his instincts had kicked in, born of long nights in A&E during his residency and longer days in the hot Afghan sun during his tenure in the army. He was cool, calm, and completely in control as he did his best to keep Sherlock alive until the ambulance arrived. Even when Sherlock had been wheeled into surgery, John had simply sat and stared at the wall in the waiting area; he was shocked and numb, feeling nothing at all as he awaited the news, but his emotions balanced on a knife edge, ready to tip into either panic or relief when it was called for. It was only once he’d been allowed up to Sherlock’s room–certainly Mycroft’s doing, as John isn’t family–and seen that normally frenetic body lying frail and motionless, somehow looking smaller than John had ever seen him before, that John allowed the weight of what had happened to settle over him. He hasn’t left Sherlock’s side since, aside from his quick trip to the loo, too afraid that if he looks away, if he even blinks, that Sherlock will be gone.

Crossing the small room, John collapses back into the chair at Sherlock’s bedside. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but even though his back is yelling in protest, there is absolutely nowhere else he would be but here at Sherlock’s side. He settles back and closes his eyes, letting the steady beeps and whirs of the monitors reassure and relax him, hoping that maybe he can doze a bit more before Sherlock finally wakes.

A quiet grunt brings him racing back from the edge of sleep, and he’s on his feet in an instant. Sherlock’s hand twitches against the sheets, and John reaches out and grabs it without thinking, giving it a light squeeze that he hopes Sherlock finds as comforting and grounding as John does. “Sherlock, you awake?” he asks, his voice hushed. Sherlock’s head rolls lazily toward him, and John holds his breath, waiting for those mercurial eyes to open. Instead, Sherlock’s brow wrinkles, and another small grunt escapes his lips as his hand trembles in John’s grasp.  _A nightmare_ , he realizes. “Shhhh. You’re okay, Sherlock. You’re okay,” he whispers, his free hand coming up to brush a wayward curl back from Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ve got you. Shhhh. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s face relaxes. John doesn’t know if it’s his touch or his words that are helping, but he’ll keep up both if Sherlock finds it soothing. He strokes one hand through those soft curls while squeezing Sherlock’s hand with the other, resolutely ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his mind that whispers about the intimacy of the moment, about how this would look if anyone were to walk in now. He ignores it because he doesn’t care; for once, he doesn’t care how it looks, doesn’t care if people assume that he and Sherlock are more than what they are. All that matters is that he nearly lost Sherlock again–he still could–but Sherlock’s here now and John isn’t going to let him go. “You have to stop doing this to me,” he says, pursing his lips. “I can’t… I can’t watch you die again, Sherlock. I can’t.”

Now that the words have started, he can’t seem to stop them. Being alone here in the quiet and the dark with Sherlock sleeping, with all his feelings for this remarkable man bubbling up again (not that they’re ever far from the surface), with the still looming threat of loss, it strengthens something in John, lends him the resolve to give voice to things he would otherwise leave unsaid, things that will only live on here between them in the stillness of this hospital room. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Have I ever told you that? You said in that ridiculous speech of yours that I’ve saved you so many times. But you saved me first.” He takes a deep breath and blinks away the tears that are starting to form, letting his gaze fall from Sherlock’s face, to the bandage over the hole in his chest, down to their joined hands. “You saved me first, Sherlock. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t met you that day. You can’t… I can’t lose you.”

John looks blurrily back up to Sherlock’s face, a face he knows nearly as well as his own by now, a face he’d once thought he’d never see again, a face that haunts both his dreams and his nightmares, a face he loves more than any other. He forces air in and out of his lungs, just as he forces the words up and out of his chest, knowing that if he doesn’t say them now he might never have a chance to again. Even with all the power he puts behind them, all the energy it takes to say the words, they come out quieter than a whisper. “I need you. Please come back to me. Please. I-I… I love you.”

John’s body sags under the relief of finally saying the words aloud, of finally saying them to Sherlock, even though he’ll never know. It eases the tension in John’s chest the slightest bit, makes it that tiny bit easier to breathe. He brushes his hand through Sherlock’s hair once more, savoring his last chance to have this kind of moment with the man who doesn’t know that John loves him. Reluctantly, John lets go of Sherlock’s hand, falling back into the chair and wiping the tears from his face. Now all he can do is wait.


	27. Sherlock's chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock, pre-slash, comfort, sequel to chapter 26
> 
> (This is an almost-direct sequel to the previous chapter, so it will make more sense if you read that one first.)

John wakes feeling as if he’s been dragged by force from his sorely-needed slumber, half expecting to see Sherlock swirling out of the room, throwing an impatient  _come on, John, we have a case_  over his shoulder as he leaves. Instead, there’s the empty sitting room of 221B, the lights of Baker Street below casting the room in a dim yellow glow. He rolls his shoulder, trying to work some of the stiffness from the muscles; he knows he shouldn’t be sleeping on the sofa, that he’s going to wake up sore in the morning because of it, but he had wanted to stay as close to Sherlock as possible, in case he needs anything.

Unsure of what woke him but satisfied that nothing seems to be amiss, he settles back into the cushions, closing his eyes and trying to drift off again, when he hears a sharp cry break the stillness of the flat. John is on his feet before the sound finishes echoing through the room. He crosses the sitting room and kitchen, hesitating with his hand on the knob of Sherlock’s bedroom door. When another pained cry breaks through the night, John pushes the door wide. In the dim light peeking around the curtains, he can just make out Sherlock’s frame, curled in on itself in the center of the bed, trembling, his head shaking frantically from side to side. Another nightmare. Sherlock’s been having them every night since he was shot. John has, too. He hasn’t seen or heard Sherlock’s since that first night at the side of his hospital bed, however, but it’s always evident in the dark circles under his eyes and the strain in his jaw the next morning. John can’t help but wonder if Sherlock’s nightmares are the same as his–shadowy rooms and blonde hair, pale skin and long coats, the sharp pop of gunfire and pools of deep, wet crimson.

John steps to the bed and seats himself on the edge of the mattress. “Sherlock, wake up,” he says softly, reaching out to gently shake his arm. Sherlock jerks away from the contact and barks a pained  _no_. John says his name louder, more firmly, but Sherlock still doesn’t wake, instead crying out again,  _not John, no_.

John feels his heart stutter at the sound of his name in Sherlock’s sleepy drawl tinged with panic and pain. Sherlock is having a nightmare about him–not the same one John’s been having after all–and it makes him want to take Sherlock in his arms and comfort him. His fingers twitch with the need to smooth Sherlock’s hair from his glistening brow, to hold him close enough to feel Sherlock’s frenetic heartbeat thumping in his own chest, to whisper that it’s okay, that he’s here, that no one is going to hurt him ever again.

Sherlock cries out again, rolling onto his back, his hands clutching at the bandage covering his pale, heaving chest, and John can’t stand it anymore. He has to do something; he can’t sit here and watch Sherlock suffer, even if only in his dreams, without trying somehow to stop it. He gently covers Sherlock’s hands with one of his own, swiping his thumb back and forth against them, and this time Sherlock doesn’t pull away from his touch. “Sherlock,” he says. “You’re okay. It’s just a dream. Just a bad dream.” John can see some of the tension draining from Sherlock’s body already, his quivering subsiding some, and it gives him the courage to do more. He reaches up with his other hand and pushes away the hair stuck to Sherlock’s forehead, running his fingers through the damp curls, letting his fingertips trace gentle circles against Sherlock’s scalp. “You’re okay.”

When Sherlock’s eyes blink open, John wants to snatch his hands away, but the lingering confusion on Sherlock’s face from the clinging vestiges of the nightmare stays him. “John?” he asks, his voice hesitant and unsure and rough with sleep.

“Yeah. I’m here, Sherlock. I’m right here.”

“John, you were… She…”

“Shhh,” John says, stroking his fingers along Sherlock’s scalp again, and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed again.

John’s heart is in his throat. This isn’t what they do. They don’t crawl into each other’s beds at night and soothe away the nightmares. Actually, that’s not entirely true. He calmed Sherlock that first night after he was shot, and Sherlock has been soothing away John’s nightmares nearly as long as they’ve known each other. More than once he has awoken to the fleeting memory of quiet music calming him in the dark of night. Sure, Sherlock hadn’t been in bed with him, but the notes had wrapped around John in a gossamer cocoon, as warm and gentle as if it had been Sherlock’s own fingers dancing across his skin, banishing away the bad memories that haunted him and replacing them with thoughts of rumbling laughter and bright, ever-changing eyes, of brilliant deductions and even more brilliant smiles. Sherlock had always reached out to him when he really needed it. Is this really so different? John can’t play music; he doesn’t have the ability to comfort Sherlock from a distance, so he has to do it the only way he knows how. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open at his words, his brow wrinkling in thought. “Say that again,” he whispers.

“What? ‘I’ve got you’?” John asks, confused. Sherlock continues to stare at him curiously, and John grows concerned that maybe he has overstepped a line. Suddenly this contact does feel too intimate after all, especially with Sherlock’s eyes searching his face like that, looking as always as if they could read all of his secrets. He pulls his hands back and rests them in his lap instead.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I have?” John tries to remember when he might have said that to Sherlock, confused but also strangely touched that Sherlock seems to remember what he says, especially something as small as that.

Sherlock’s eyes lock on to his, boring into him, intense and questioning and perhaps a little bit frightened. “Hospital,” he breathes, and John goes still as realization hits and the world spins around him. Sherlock was asleep. He couldn’t have heard that. He was asleep. Wasn’t he? Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. John wants to flee. This was a terrible idea. He never should have come in here. He never should have said those things when Sherlock was in hospital either. But he had been afraid that he would lose Sherlock without ever saying them, and there in the darkness it had seemed safe. But it wasn’t. Because Sherlock had heard him. Oh god. He’s ruined everything.

John doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Sherlock reaches out and covers both of them with one of his own. “I thought I dreamed that,” he says, and John knows that it’s really a question, that he’s asking for confirmation of what he heard that night. It would be so easy to lie, to deny everything, to act as if he has no idea what Sherlock is talking about–and he wants to, Christ how he wants to lie because this is frankly terrifying–but there is something there on Sherlock’s face, a vulnerability John doesn’t see very often, that makes it impossible for him to deny the truth.

He takes a deep breath and tries to steady the beat of his traitorous heart. “No,” he says simply, looking down at his hands, unwilling to watch whatever might come next, not wanting to see everything come crumbling down. He tries to memorize the way Sherlock’s hand looks pressed against his own, the way it feels against his skin, his fingers warm and rough and callused and perfect, knowing that this is the last time they’ll ever be this close again, that with one single word he has likely ruined everything they’ve ever had. He tries to recall exactly what he said that night, exactly what Sherlock might have heard, in order to judge just how bad the damage might be. He had been scared and desperate and rambling, and though he can’t remember much of it, he knows how it ended, with those three little words he’d always longed to say. They had slipped out so easily. After all the times that he had thought them, all the times they’d caught in his throat, they’d slid right out when he was sure Sherlock couldn’t hear them.  _I love you_.

“And I you,” Sherlock whispers, giving John’s hands a gentle squeeze. John’s eyes snap to his face, looking for reassurance that he heard that correctly and finding it in the softness of Sherlock’s eyes and the tiny quirk of his lips. He can feel himself staring as he tries to process everything that just happened. Sherlock can’t really mean… Can he?

“You…” John starts but can’t figure out how to finish.

And Sherlock smiles. Genuinely smiles. That beautiful, brilliant, sparkling smile to which only John ever seems to be privy. “Yes.” And then John’s smiling, too. Grinning like an idiot actually. How is it possible that, after all this time, Sherlock somehow does feel the same? After all of John’s longing and wishing and hoping. After all that they’ve been through together. After Sherlock miraculously came back to him, not once but twice. After John had given up that he’d ever have anything more than a close friendship with this man whom he loves more than anything in the world. After John had gotten married. Oh god. John had gotten married. John  _is_  married. Sherlock loves him, but he’s married, and his bloody wife tried to kill Sherlock, and oh god, oh god, oh god. This is not good. What are they going to do? God, he’s really fucked this up.

A light caress on his cheek brings John out of his spiraling dread. Sherlock cups his face more firmly and tells him, “We’ll figure it out.” John marvels as always at Sherlock’s seeming ability to read his thoughts. There have been days when it irritated him, days when it terrified him, that Sherlock might read everything John didn’t want him to know. But right now it’s a comfort, to know that he doesn’t have to give voice to the mistakes he’s made, to the things that still stand in their way. Someday he will. But not today. It’s a thought so reassuring that John could kiss Sherlock, and oh Christ how brilliant that would be, but he can’t, not like this, not with Mary’s shadow hanging over them. The first time John kisses Sherlock it will be the start of the rest of his life, and he can’t begin that life without ending this one first. And so he resists, as difficult as it is, nodding instead and pushing himself away so that he can stand, needing to put some distance between them if he’s going to have any hope of staying true to his intent, but Sherlock captures his wrist to stop him. “Stay.” He says it as a statement, but John can see the question in his eyes. “Please.”

It’s a terrible idea, he knows, the temptation for more laid out there in front of them, but he also knows that there is no way he can say no. Not to Sherlock. Not to this. Not when all he really wants is to fall into Sherlock’s bed and stay forever. John can feel Sherlock’s eyes tracking his every movement as he crawls back into the bed and settles on his side on the second pillow, trying to determine how much space is appropriate to leave between them, to find the balance between seeming distant and tempting himself too much, but Sherlock takes the decision out of his hands, scooting to the very edge of John’s pillow. For a moment, John is afraid (and a little exhilarated) that Sherlock might kiss him, but Sherlock stops before their lips meet, settling his head down so close that every tiny movement either of them makes causes their noses to brush against each other. A tentative hand comes up to rest on John’s cheek, long fingers twitching against the stubble along his jaw. They lie in silence, peering at each other through the darkness, nose to nose, breath mingling, Sherlock cupping John’s face as if he were something fragile, beautiful, worthy. The intimacy of it is overwhelming, perhaps even more than if they had actually kissed. John reaches across the minimal distance and places his own hand on Sherlock’s bare chest, his skin warm and soft with the faintest trace of hair tickling John’s palm, his heart thumping as frantically as John’s own. It’s reassuring; in spite of everything, Sherlock is still here, and he wants John here with him, too.

Tomorrow they’ll get up and start to plan what to do about Mary, what to do about them. But for tonight, they drift off to sleep, their hands still tenuously bridging the space between them, and for the first time in weeks, there are no nightmares for either of them, only sweet dreams of things to come.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
